


And We All Return to the Earth

by Bespectacled_Panda



Category: PBG Hardcore series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Diverges after Minez 2, EDIT 11/8/2019: MR. DEAN ELAZAB SIR DO NOT INTERACT, God I miss McJones, Gore, I can't believe I wrote Minecraft rpf, It's-Not-a-Game AU, M/M, Shoutouts to the Minecraft Wiki for saving my life, Slow Burn, This is a very heavily researched story on many fronts, This is one big pile of self-indulgence, This is so long I'm really sorry, This isn't Minecraft 6 I swear, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-05-16 18:47:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 109,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19323964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bespectacled_Panda/pseuds/Bespectacled_Panda
Summary: Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Dean blurts, “Hey, come here often?” And he immediately cringes, because that’s probably one of the dumbest things to ever come out of his mouth.But in his defense, okay, there’s not exactly a standard etiquette for what to say when you see someone for the first time after they died horribly in your arms.---Or, how McJones died, how it was kinda sorta all Dean’s fault, and everything that happened afterwards.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> _**-IMPORTANT-**_  
>   
>  _ **PLEASE READ & UNDERSTAND THE FOLLOWING:**_  
>   
> If you are someone who has ever been affiliated with Hardcore, **(THAT MEANS YOU, EMMA. IF YOU'RE READING THIS, I'M GOING TO CRY)** it was never my desire for you to find this story. If someone has sent you a link, they have done so without my knowledge or consent.  
>   
>  _ **I SINCERELY APOLOGIZE. PLEASE DO NOT CONTINUE READING.**_  
>   
>  Additionally, even if you yourself are not affiliated with Hardcore, do NOT, under any circumstances, bring this story to the attention of anyone who is. I realize that real-person fanfiction can be quite a contentious issue, and I strongly wish to avoid making anyone uncomfortable. Thus, it is very important to me that I keep this completely fictional story safely away from the Hardcore cast & staff. To undermine my attempts to do so would be disrespectful to all parties affected.  
>   
> Although this story technically depicts real individuals, this is merely a work of fiction based on a YouTube show, and nothing said or done by any of the persons in this story should be taken as a reflection of reality. Furthermore, absolutely no disrespect is intended towards Dean, McJones, anyone else portrayed herein, or their real-life significant others.  
>   
> I also do not intend any disrespect regarding McJones’s retirement. I know he has said that he is completely done with anything related to Hardcore, and this is not meant to be any comment on that either. The fact that I wrote a story where he is a happy participant in Hardcore has nothing to do with his retirement, and I wish him only the best.  
>   
>  _ **IF YOU CHOOSE TO CONTINUE READING, PLEASE ACKNOWLEDGE AND CONSENT TO ALL OF THE ABOVE POINTS.**_  
>   
>  Thank you for understanding.  
>   
> \---  
>   
> I apologize for the serious tone, but as stated, I really don’t want to make anyone from Hardcore uncomfortable if they happen to see this fic somehow. I know that’s highly unlikely, but I also know that Dean and McJones are 100% aware that people ship them. It’s not like ryzab is a well-kept secret or anything. I could restrict this story to only AO3 users to further cut down the chances that anyone from Hardcore sees it, but that would also block anyone who just happens to not have an account here, and I don’t want to do that. So, for the time being, this story will cautiously remain open to the public.  
>   
> Now, with that out of the way...  
>   
> Hello, I’m your friendly neighborhood embarrassment here to bring you an obnoxiously-long fic for a tiny fandom that prominently features a person who doesn’t even participate in the source material anymore!  
>   
> Anyway, I tried really hard on this, and all jokes aside, I’m actually proud of it. And even if literally only one person reads and enjoys this, that’s good enough for me. However, there's still a few more things you have to know:  
>   
> 1) This fic isn’t going to be one of those multichapter ones where the author just stops writing with no explanation & everyone reading it slowly loses hope of it ever being updated again. I have written and edited the entire story, beginning to end. It is done. So rest assured that there won’t be any hiatuses, and it especially won’t be discontinued.  
>   
> 2) The word count. Oh god, the word count. Depending on when you’re reading this, that number might not be scary right now, but I promise it’s gonna get there real fast. This started out as a humble ryzab fic, and then it quickly spiraled out of control and turned into so much more. It’s still a humble ryzab fic, but it also became an exploration of what Hardcore would be like if it was real, as well as something of a tribute/love letter to McJones (he retired roughly a week after I started writing, so all my feelings about that wound up getting mixed into this story too.) The best way to think of this is that I tried to emulate an actual season of Hardcore, so there’s mining and exploring and overarching goals and stuff like that. Although there is romantic content as well, it is not a solely romance story.  
>   
> 3) This story has a weird relationship to canon. It’s obviously an AU, but AU seems to be the understood default in the HC fandom. It’s also technically canon-compliant up through MineZ HC #2, meaning you’re meant to assume that the events of those seasons occurred more or less the same as they did IRL. But everything after Minez 2—MC 6, Starbound, MC 7, and so on—didn’t happen in this universe. So I’m not really sure how to classify this story. Canon-divergent AU? Is that a thing?  
>   
>  **TL;DR: This won't go on hiatus or be discontinued; there’s more of a plot than just romance; and it's sorta canon divergent, sorta AU.**  
>   
>  And that’s all I have to say! Thank you for giving my story a chance, and I sincerely hope you enjoy it.

###### Part One

“Why are we doing this?”

McJones sighs heavily from where he’s crouched. “This is literally going to be the third time I’ve told you. Are you actually gonna listen now, or are will you just ask me again in another twenty minutes?”

Apparently there _is,_ in fact, a point when McJones gets tired of explaining shit. Dean files this newfound knowledge away for later.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says through a mouthful of apple. “I just—I want to hear it one more time. Do your thing, Professor. Drop some sick knowledge on me.”

McJones rolls his eyes way, _way_ back in his head at that, but surprisingly, he lets it go without a retort.

“We’re doing this,” he begins instead, his voice taking on that tinge of grandeur he reserves for times like this, “because none of us have been able to find any sugar cane growing anywhere. As you should know by now, without sugar cane, we can’t make paper, books, or bookshelves. And _that_ means we can’t enchant, ‘cause you can’t get any good enchantments without the bookshelves. But—”

“So we’re fucked, basically?”

“No! Can you please shut up for two seconds?” McJones aims a sharp look at Dean over the rims of his glasses. Dean holds up his hands in mock-surrender, and McJones continues after a moment. “ _But_. There’s a village about half a day’s walk from here, and lucky for us, one of the villagers is offering bookshelves for three emeralds apiece. So if we can get enough emeralds, it won’t even matter that we can’t find any stupid sugar cane. We’ll be able to enchant like normal and move on with our lives.”

The two of them glance down at their spoils. The meager, unimpressive result of hours and hours of mind-numbing work, arranged in neat rows:

Seventeen emeralds.

Whoop-de-fuckin’-doo.

“How many do we need again?” Dean asks, taking another aggressive bite of his apple.

“Do the math yourself.”

“Hey, I’m not the smart one here.”

“It’s just basic multiplication, Dean. Three times fifteen. Forty-five,” McJones mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, fuck that, dude. We’re never gonna find enough.” Dean shakes his head roughly. “We’ve been in this hellhole mine _forever_ , and we haven’t even gotten half of what we need.”

“Well, don’t forget that the others are out mining too. So it’s our seventeen plus whatever they’ve got.”

“What’re the chances that they’ve found any more than we have?”

“Considering there’s three of them and only two of us, I’d say pretty good.”

“Yeah, but still. I really doubt they’ve been having much better luck than us, and ours has blown this entire time.”

McJones’s mouth twists. “Yeah, I’m with you on that one. This really sucks. But we don’t exactly have a choice; going into the End without good enchants is suicide.”

He’s right, and Dean knows it. Dean chews contemplatively on the apple’s stem for a moment. “...You’re _sure_ there’s no sugar cane anywhere?”

“Not that we could find,” McJones replies wryly. “Barry and I spent three days searching, but we didn’t even see any rivers, let alone sand for the reeds to grow on.”

This time around, they’d settled in the middle of a sparse taiga forest, all dark wood and mossy boulders and ashy dirt. A beautiful and rugged place to live, but apparently not particularly useful resource-wise. Dean tips his head against the cool, bumpy surface of the mine’s walls.

“God, I hate this,” he mumbles.

Slowly, McJones tucks their emeralds back into his bag. He grabs his pickaxe from the ground and stands up, stretching. “Well,” he says, “we’d better get back to it.”

So Dean pushes himself off the wall, and they split away from each other, returning to the cramped, uneven tunnels they’ve been digging for the better part of eternity. They work in relative silence, the only sound being the dull clang of iron on stone. Way back when they first got started this morning, Dean tried to get McJones to sing some mining shanties with him _to keep up morale_ , as Dean had said. McJones didn’t go for it, though, ‘cause he’s totally lame.

They did talk for a while early on as a way to pass the time, but as their energy and patience dwindled, so too did the conversation. And by now, they mostly don’t speak at all. But just a few minutes after they take up their picks again, Dean hears McJones’s voice echoing over to him from the end of the other tunnel, dug perpendicularly to his:

 “Found another one.”

“Sweet. That makes eighteen,” Dean calls back, cupping his hands around his mouth. “At this rate, we’ll be dead of old age before we ever find these damn emeralds. Better notify your next of kin, McJones.”

McJones wheeze-laughs in response, and Dean gets a small burst of pride in his chest for managing to make a joke McJones does more than just sigh at. But then neither of them says anything for another who-knows-how-long, and the weariness sets back in.

Despite the chilly temperature outside—well, at least, it was chilly when they first set out on this godforsaken emerald hunt. The entire surface of the planet could very well have been scorched to ash in a fiery apocalypse, but Dean wouldn’t know, because he’s been underground for the _whole fucking day_ —it’s stuffy down in the mines. Dean’s back and armpits are all slick with sweat, and his hair is stuck to his forehead, and his arms hurt like hell, and he’s completely exhausted, and—

Look. Mining is fun. Dean likes mining. At least, he likes it when their goal is something easier, like gathering coal or finding a cave or something. And he likes it when it’s a whole group of them working together, chatting and laughing and listening to PBG try to tell a story but get distracted fifty times and end up flusteredly talking himself in circles.

But when it’s six fucking hours of nothing but digging through blank stone in virtual solitude, the whole thing kinda loses its appeal.

Maybe they should’ve sung those damn shanties.         

* * *

It happens somewhere between ten minutes and two hours later—Dean isn’t sure; time starts to get melty and run together when you’re down in the mines for too long. With each bit of rock he chips away, he’s praying to every god out there that he’ll uncover the tantalizing glint of emerald. He’s not actually paying attention to what he’s doing, though. At this point, he’s just going through the motions— _grab, lift, swing, grab, lift, swing_ —mentally already having gone home and passed out in bed.

But when Dean breaks into the wall in front of him and a huge mass of loose rock instantly gives way, crashing backwards to reveal a dark, gaping cavern, his mind snaps right back to full alertness.

“Oh shit,” he whispers to himself, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand and blinking a little. He had no idea he was two feet from falling into head-over-heels into a cave. Usually, the muffled squeals of bats or groans of zombies alert you way before you get that close. But this particular cave is as still and silent as the dead. It’s a little disconcerting, honestly.

Dean lights a torch, then, and takes a step forward, moving gingerly in case any of the stone beneath his feet is unstable as well. Slowly, he holds the flame through the rock and into the cave, illuminating a little area around him.

As soon as his eyes adjust, he realizes that it actually isn’t a cave after all. No, the hollow he’s dug into seems more... _manmade_ than that. It doesn’t look like a dungeon or a stronghold—from what he can see of it, the walls are just more stone, not cobble or brick, and the floor is made of pure dirt—but it’s way too smooth and perfect-looking to be natural.

Dean’s skin prickles. This feels like the exact kind of situation where he’ll get himself killed in an amazingly moronic fashion. So instead, he turns and yells out again:

“Dude, McJones! I found a thing!”

“Found what?” comes McJones’s distant reply. “Emerald, I hope.”

“No, it’s—well, it’s a _room_.”

After a pause, there comes the sound of running footsteps, and a few seconds later, McJones is worming in beside him, nudging his pickaxe out of the way with a boot. “A _what_ did you say?”

“I dunno. It’s weird. See for yourself.”

Dean gestures to the jagged hole in the rock behind him. McJones takes the torch from him and peers through. But he only gives a cursory glance before he turns away again, looking significantly less impressed than Dean had hoped.

“That’s just one of those abandoned mineshafts, Dean,” he says in a way that suggests he thinks Dean’s a colossal idiot. “The railway passages always branch off of dirt entrances like this.”

“Oh. Huh.”

“You should be able to dig around it no problem; they’re not that big. Be careful, though, ‘cause you might mine into one of the—”

“I’m gonna go check it out. Later, dude!”

“What—no, no, no, don’t—” McJones starts, but it’s too late. Grabbing his pickaxe in one hand, Dean lowers himself to the ground and drops off the edge into the dirt room with a _hup_. It’s a bigger jump than he expects, and the landing knocks the wind out of him, sending him reeling sideways.

When he gets his balance back, he first thing he notices is that it’s a helluva lot cooler down in the mineshaft. He grabs the hem of his shirt and flaps it, sighing appreciatively at the air that sweeps over his sticky skin. The second thing he notices, when he sticks a torch on the wall beside him, is that there’s a narrow, dimly-lit passage lined with broken minecart rails right across the room from him, just like McJones said.

McJones is glaring at Dean from about seven feet up, hovering at the edge of the tunnel. Dean beckons to him with both hands. “Look, it’s fine. We’ve explored, like, a bazillion mineshafts before. We know what’s going on.”

“We’re supposed to be finding emeralds!” McJones squawks.

“Yeah, but I think we both deserve a break.”

“We just took a break!”

Dean only cocks his head up at McJones and offers a shit-eating grin. McJones groans, sucking in his cheeks. One of these days, Dean thinks, McJones is just gonna say _fuck it, I’m done babysitting you. Your recklessness isn’t my problem._ But clearly, today isn’t that day, because after a second, McJones hops down into the room as well, grunting.

Still, he looks halfway to furious, so Dean shoulder-bumps him as they start towards the opening of the minecart passage. “C’mon, don’t be a pissbaby,” he says. “We’re literally being handed a pre-dug mine. Why would we _not_ explore it? We could find hella emerald down here, dude. You don’t know.”

McJones scratches his mustache and gives a taut raise of his eyebrows. “Or we could just be wasting even more time.”

“Well, fine, be like that. But we’ll see what you have to say after we run into a whole vein of that sweet, emerald-y goodness.” Then, Dean jabs his sword forward, bellows, “Onward, men!” and leads the way into the passage.

At first, McJones trails behind like some kind of sullen child, but after a few minutes, he jogs forward to fall into step with Dean. They walk at a leisurely pace, zigzagging around rusted-over minecarts and ducking under cobwebby support beams. It actually wasn’t true, what Dean said: _We’ve explored, like, a bazillion mineshafts before._ It’s only been a handful of times, if that. They’re not super common, and really the only reason to ever go looking for them in the first place is if you need melon seeds or something. Mostly, all you find in them is a bunch of monsters and maybe some okay loot.

Dean likes it here, though. It’s even colder than the dirt room was, cold enough to make goosebumps pop out on his skin. Plus, he really digs the whole _abandoned_ vibe. There’s just something about it—about all of the leftover minecarts and railroad pieces and long-burnt-out torch nubs—that gives him a sense of excitement. A sense of promise. A sense that he could stumble across something cool at any moment.

And then he does. The two of them turn a corner, and there’s a chest sitting right there in a minecart shoved against the wall.

A grin splits Dean’s face. “Oh, _hell_ yes!” he exclaims, rushing forward. “That’s what I like to see!” He drops to his knees in front of the chest and reaches for the worn, metal clasp, but McJones jerks out a hand to stop him.

“Dean, wait. It might be boobytrapped,” he says, because nothing can ever be fun with him. You always gotta worry about _what ifs_ and other bullshit like that. Dean rolls his eyes.

“God, are you for real, dude? Look at this place! _Nothing’s_ in working order anymore, so why would a dumb trap on a minecart chest be either? Relax.”

Without giving McJones any more chance to protest, Dean fumbles with the clasp and pushes up on the lid. It sticks at first, the hinges obviously tight with age, but with a bit of tugging, it pops right open, releasing a cloud of dust into Dean’s face. He coughs, splutters a little, but it doesn’t stop him from immediately leaning in to check out the spoils.

The chest is about half full with boring old minecart rails—albeit those fancy, redstone-powered ones—and there’re a few gold nuggets and a broken nametag scattered around. It’s really not much, and Dean feels a stab of disappointment. There’s no point in taking the rails or the nametag, but they can maybe use the nuggets to make a golden carrot or something, so he reaches in to grab them up. And that’s what he sees it, half-hidden under the stack of rails: a faint, turquoisey shine.

“Wait, hold the fuck up!” he cries. “Yo! _Yooooo!_ Is that a fucking _diamond?_ Oh, gimme that!”

He reaches into the chest with both hands, prying the minecart rails up with probably more fervor than needed. He can’t really see what he’s doing, and he accidentally scraps his palm on a sharp piece of metal, sending a flash of pain through him. He’ll probably get tetanus and die a horrible death, but he doesn’t even care, because then he’s fishing the diamond out and cradling it in his hands like a baby bird. It’s a little on the smaller side, truthfully, but a small diamond is a hell of a lot better than no diamond at all. Dean springs to his feet, throwing his fist into the air with a triumphant whoop.

“We’re so fucking awesome, McJones!”

“How do you figure?” McJones says from where he’s settled himself against the wall in a resigned sort of way.

“Because! We just found diamond without even looking for it! You think the other scrubs are that badass? No way!”

“Maybe I should remind you of my brother’s freakish luck with diamond.”

“Touché.” Dean looks down at the diamond again. There’s some dirt smudged across one of the facets. Nothing that a little wash won’t take care of, though. “...But! We didn’t even get it while mining; we just looked in some random chest in an abandoned mineshaft, and there it was! You gotta admit, that’s pretty goddamn incredible.”

“...Sure.”

“I can’t wait to rub it in the others’ faces as soon as we meet back up with ‘em. They’re gonna _wish_ they were as cool as we are!”

Dean’s kind of yelling at this point, but he figures it’s pretty justified. Contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t actually try to be loud; it’s just kinda something that happens whenever he gets super amped up. Which is ninety-five percent of the time, because that’s who he is, take it or leave it. He can’t help being hype.

McJones is staring at him, looking vaguely amused. “Really, Dean? _One_ diamond.”

“Hell yeah!” Dean grins back, flashing the diamond before tucking it away in his bag. “Think of all the shit we can make with this little guy! Like—like—”

He stops. Thinks for a few moments. Runs through his mental list of crafting recipes. “—Uh. Tell me again, what can you make with one diamond?"

“Well, a shovel,” McJones supplies.

And Dean just fucking loses it.

He erupts into hysterical laughter, half-collapsing into the wall and burying his face in his hands. It’s loud in the confined space of the mineshaft, and he can feel McJones staring at him curiously. But he can’t speak—he can barely breathe he’s laughing so hard—and he’s pretty sure there’re actual tears coming out of his eyes.

“Fucking _diamond shovel_ ,” Dean eventually manages to gasp between peals of laughter. “Have you ever heard of anything so useless in your entire life? Some asshole likes digging in the dirt _so much_ that he wants a shovel made of—”

He can’t even finish the sentence; the thought of it sets him off all over again. It’s really not that funny, and Dean knows that, and yet he can’t stop fucking laughing. He’s delirious, probably. All that emerald hunting must’ve broken something inside of him.

And maybe it also broke McJones, because suddenly _he_ busts out laughing too, wheezing, “Yes, you’re right, that’s such a waste!”

The two of them proceed to stand there for a good minute straight, just laughing their heads off like goddamned idiots. McJones has a good laugh, Dean thinks. It’s high and quick and kinda bursts out of him like he doesn’t expect it. Whenever he smiles real big, his eyes smile too, crinkling up into half-moons, and he’s got this downturned, pouty kind of mouth that always gives his grins a really pleasing shape. It’s a nice change from the usual look he wears—a tired kind of exasperation that stems from being the only person on the team who ever knows diddly.

“Wait, wait, Dean,” McJones blurts, flapping his hand to get Dean’s attention, “I thought of something worse!”

“Yeah?”

“A diamond hoe.”

Dean splutters into his palm. “Oh god, you’re right. That’s—fuck, why would you even _make_ that?”

“The only benefit over an iron one is that it lasts longer! Who needs to till that much dirt all at one time? No, no, a hoe is definitely the most pointless way to use diamond,” McJones declares.

And a joke starts to form deep in the folds of Dean’s brain. Something about McJones’s mother and the word _hoe_. He can tell it’s gonna be a good one, even though McJones’ll probably haul off and punch him in the nose because he has no appreciation for humor. With a sly grin, Dean leans forward. “Hey, McJones—”

But he never gets to say it. Right at that moment, there comes a harsh, sibilant noise from behind him. A noise that drives a knife of fear into his gut. And he whirls, muscles tightening, just in time to catch a spider on the upswing of his sword.

The spider hisses in pain and rage, and Dean yelps as it launches itself at him once more. He shoves his sword forward in a blind panic, goring the thing through the middle. It gurgles wetly, leaking dark, thick blood all over the mineshaft floor, before its legs curl inwards and it goes still.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Dean breathes, his heart pounding with adrenaline. “I almost got murked! Fucking kamikaze spider, dude. What the fuck?”

He stares at the crumpled body, and an involuntary shudder rolls through him. Fuck spiders. Seriously. They’re the worst goddamn monster here. Zombies; skeletons; blazes; zombie pigmen; even endermen with their violet pupils and waxy, black-as-the-abyss bodies—he can deal with. But giant spiders? _Fuck. That._ Fuck all their hairy legs and all their blood-red eyes and the noises they make and the way they _skitter_ —god. He ought to be used to ‘em after this long, but they still scare the shit out of him.

And—it’s not a regular spider, he realizes abruptly, snapping back. No, even worse; it’s one of the deadlier ones, the smaller ones with the blotchy-blue skin and the long fangs that drip poison. The ones that subsist only in underground areas, weaving their webby nests in the pitch darkness.

Right then, two more cave spiders skim around the corner, and Dean sucks in a sharp, startled breath. He charges at one of them before it can get too close, and suddenly McJones is beside him, taking on the other.

“There’s probably a spawner nearby!” McJones huffs mid-combat.

“You think?”

“Yeah. There’s no way—” a third spider pounces in from out of nowhere, McJones only barely managing to knock it away in time, “—there wouldn’t be this many otherwise.”

Dean jabs a spider through one of its eyes, his sword coming back blood-spattered. “I’ll go look,” he says, and he slips past the shriveled corpses, ducking into the adjacent passage that the spiders came from.

He gets a mere two steps around the corner before freezing in place. The entire passage is filled with spider webs so thick he can barely see. But through the milky-white strands stretched across the walls like a net, he can just make out faint embers glowing in the dark.

“ _Oh_ , yeah, there’s definitely a spawner!” he hollers over his shoulder. Right as the words leave his mouth, another spider darts out from behind the webs, fangs bared and glistening. Dean jumps back. “ _Fuck_!”

The spider scurries for his leg, and Dean kicks at it, driving his sword through its stiff exoskeleton with a _crack_ that makes him feel sick. He’s sweating again, hot all over from stress and exertion. God, of course the sweet loot they found just _had_ to be located right next to a fucking cave spider quinceañera. Their luck is just incredible.

Dean leans back around the corner, lifting his chin at McJones. “Hey, imma try and break the spawner. Can you cover for me?”

“Sure. But—” McJones’s eyebrows knit, and he adjusts his grip on the hilt of his sword, “—be careful. Don’t get yourself killed for something as stupid as this. We can just block the den off, you know.”

But he follows Dean back towards the shithole anyway, lingering in the intersection between tunnels, ready to play backup if the need arises. Dean tries to slash through a few of the webs in his way, but it’s way too slow-going. So he settles for just squirming his way through, trying not to get any in his mouth. He’s maybe a few feet from being within pickaxe-reach of the spawner when another cave spider pops out of it.

“Oh, goddamn it.”

“Shield up,” McJones calls.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” The spider scrabbles at the wood of Dean’s shield, but he pushes back against it with a grunt. A moment later, when it’s slain and cast off to the side, he storms up to the spawner and whips out his pick. There’s a fire in his chest now as he starts hacking away; he came down here to relax, not to fight, and he just wants these spider fuckers to _die_ already.

With a well-aimed swing of his pick, he smashes through one of the metal bars forming the spawner’s cage-like exterior. But as long as the embers within continue to burn, it’s still completely functional, churning out spiders by the minute. Dean heaves his pickaxe up, poised to go at the spawner again, but then something occurs to him.

“McJones.”

“What’s up?”

“Can’t you—isn’t there a way to, like, neutralize the spawner without breaking it?”

“…Oh.” Behind him, Dean hears McJones take a shuffling step closer. “Yeah, you can, actually. You have to put torches on all sides of it, I think. On the top too. The light disables it.”

“Sweet, okay.”

Quickly, Dean lights a torch and sets it on the very top of the spawner, the flame dancing in his eyes. He moves to make another one, but he moves too carelessly, and the stick he grabs for slips right through his fingers. And in the time it takes him to snatch it up again, _three_ spiders lunge out from the darkness—two from somewhere deep within the webs and one from the spawner itself.

“Ugh, fuck off!” Dean yells, slicing out with his sword and catching one of them on the foreleg. It gives a low growl, its eight eyes swiveling rapidly, and lurches around Dean, closely followed by one of its friends.

That leaves only a single spider for Dean to take on—a fair fight. It dodges Dean’s first strike, scuttling up one of the larger webs stretched across a support beam. But when it moves to dive down onto Dean’s head, he blocks it with his shield and drives his blade up into its fleshy underbelly. The ensuing spray of blood lands several fat drops onto Dean’s face, which he scrubs away with the back of his hand. The spider writhes beneath him in agony, and Dean raises his sword to put it out of its misery. But a sudden, sharp gasp from behind him snags his attention. And a second later, McJones’s voice bursts out:

“Crap! I’m poisoned!”

Dean’s pulse quickens. “What?!” He risks a brief glance back, and out of the corner of his eye, he catches the sight of McJones backed into the corner by the other two spiders. “You— _no_!”

In an instant, he kills the spider beneath his feet and whirls, fighting his way through the webs over to McJones. He forces the spiders away with his shield, making just enough space for McJones to trip away and dart out of the den with Dean right on his heels.

And the spiders are too. Dean shoving them aside only bought a few seconds at most; they don’t give up on their prey nearly that easily. Now, their legs clatter harshly against the stone floor in pursuit, and their hissing makes the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stand up.

Moving quick, he walls off the narrow entrance to the den with cobblestone. One of the spiders tries to wriggle through a hole near the top, but he fights it off and shoves a loose chunk of stone into the gap. They claw wildly at the other side of the rock, spitting in a blind fury, but Dean’s not even paying attention to them anymore. McJones has sunk to his knees beside the chest they discovered not five minutes earlier, and he’s clutching his left arm to his middle.

“Dude, what the hell happened?” Dean demands, wide-eyed, and McJones looks up sharply.

“I—I’m not sure exactly,” he says in a tense voice. “I tried to use my shield, but one of them got past it and bit me.”

He grabs at his sleeve, torn almost into rags, and hikes it roughly over his elbow. Then, he holds out his forearm for Dean to see. Two nasty-looking puncture wounds are dug into his arm a few inches apart, both bleeding steadily. The raw skin around the punctures is already turning a faint greenish-yellow from the spider’s venom. Dean’s no expert on injuries, but he can tell just by looking that this is really, _really_ bad. He drops down to the ground as well, tearing open his bag with shaking fingers.

“Okay. Fuck. Uh—” He licks his lips. “H-how do you cure poison again?”

“Either a potion or milk.”

A wave of relief courses through Dean’s veins. “Oh, _milk_!” he breathes, the tightness in his chest unwinding. “We have that!”

It was just last night that Jeff went out to milk the cows. When he came back, he took his brimming bucket of milk, filled up about a dozen little glass bottles, and handed them out to anyone who wanted one. _I dunno_ , he’d said to Dean at the time, _it might be useful_. And he was right; his bottle o’ milk is about to literally save McJones’s life.

…That is, it will if Dean can actually find it.

He’s practically turned his bag upside down at this point, but it’s nowhere to be seen. Wood planks, loose lumps of coal, even a handful of pumpkin seeds he didn’t know he had—sure. But no milk. Nada. Nil.

“I _know_ I have it,” he mutters more to himself than McJones, rummaging through his stuff for the third time. “Jeff gave a bottle to me, and I put it away in the food chest so I wouldn’t lose it.”

So what the hell did he do with it after that? Dean frowns hard and sits back on his heels. He stretches his tired brain all the way back to this morning, when he and the others were getting ready to set out on their emerald-gathering expedition.

He was smelting some iron to make a new chestplate, he remembers faintly. He was planning on making a helmet too, except for then PBG started bugging him to hurry up and trying to steal his iron and generally being a huge pain in the ass. So Dean escaped to the food chest in the corner to stock up on provisions instead.

“God, I just saw the milk this morning! I— _where the fuck is it_?”

Frustrated now, Dean screws up his face and thinks even harder. At the chest, he’d pulled out a couple of baked potatoes and tucked them away in his bag. Then, he picked up a small loaf of bread to inspect it, and— _oh, right!_ Below the bread, in the very corner of the chest, sat his bottle of milk, right where he’d left it the previous night. Immediately, he’d reached for it, and he—he curled his fingers around the neck of the bottle and—

—pushed it to the side.

He pushed the milk bottle to the side and grabbed an apple instead. And then he stood up, closed the food chest, and walked away without looking back.

Dean falls still. A numb feeling slowly descends over him, his vision going fuzzy around the edges. He breaths in, out. In, out. And finally, he twists to look at McJones.

“I don’t have the milk.” His voice comes out wooden. “I left it at home.”

McJones processes this.

“Oh balls,” he says.

“Yeah.”

Dean stares at McJones. McJones, whose chin is tucked into his chest, whose face is stony and unreadable. Who’s bleeding a dark crimson all over his skin and his shirt and the ground and _everything_.

In that instant, the numbness lifts, and the full gravity of the situation slams into Dean like a boulder. His fingers dig into his knees through his pants. “B-but,” he starts, his tongue feeling like lead against his teeth, “but it’s probably still fine! Spider poison doesn’t actually kill you, right?”

McJones doesn’t respond. And that says more than any words ever could.

Dean’s blood rushes deafeningly in his ears, and for a heartbeat, he’s paralyzed. Then, jerking his head down, he paws frantically through his bag and yanks out a loaf of bread, which he then nearly throws at McJones. “Here. Eat this. Keep your health up.”

“I have my own food,” McJones says.

“I don’t care. Just _eat_.”

McJones opens his mouth like he’s about to reply again, but maybe he sees something in Dean’s face, because just he sighs softly through his nose and takes a small bite of the bread.

For a few minutes, they don’t talk. Dean feels every second that goes by like a cold hand squeezing his windpipe, and he’s so high-strung that when McJones suddenly bursts into a coughing fit, it almost sends him jumping out of his skin.

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ , are you okay?!”

McJones nods faintly, hacking into the crook of his elbow. “Bread down the wrong pipe, I think.”

“I…h-has the poison worn off yet?”

“No.”

“Fuck.”

Dean has no idea what to do. His fingers tangle together in his lap, and his eyes jump all around the small passageway before finally landing on McJones’s arm again. The sickly yellow blotch around the puncture wounds has grown, and it’s now about the size of two fists put together. McJones also, Dean notes with a fair amount of alarm, seems to be bleeding faster than he was before.

“Um. Your—your arm.” Dean points with a trembling hand. “Should it still be bleeding that much?”

McJones looks down at his arm, like he’d forgotten it was there or something. After a moment, he remarks, “No, probably not.”

“ _Shit_. Just keep eating.”

There’s a vague kind of irony in the fact that, even though it’s McJones who’s losing a metric ton of blood, _Dean’s_ the one who’s freaking out. It might actually be kinda funny if it wasn’t horrible.

Dean jumps up and starts pacing back and forth to maybe calm his nerves a little, give himself something to do besides sit there and watch McJones like a hawk. It doesn’t work, but he stays on his feet anyway, rocking back and forth like a kid. And he thinks, _How the hell did this happen?_ How did everything turn to absolute shit so quickly? It wasn’t even a half-hour ago that he was exploring the mineshaft with McJones and laughing over dumb stuff and just having a good time shootin’ the shit. His guard was down— _both_ of their guards were down, really. They weren’t prepared at all for this. And now…

McJones speaks up, snapping Dean out of his thoughts.

“Dean,” he begins carefully, as if he hasn’t quite figured out what he wants to say even though he’s already saying it.

“Yeah? What’s going on? Do you need more food? Or are you better now?” Dean asks, his voice coming out louder than he intends.

McJones lowers his eyes, his shoulders rising as he takes in a deep breath. “When I die—”

Dean goes cold.

“Oh no. No, no, no. Not like this. You’re not fucking dying on me like this. You’re _not_. You—you’re gonna be fine.”

“Dean—”

He jabs a finger at McJones. “ _No_. This damn poison is gonna wear off any second now, okay? You just gotta keep eating and ride it out. And then we—we can get the hell outta Dodge and find the rest of the emeralds and go home and have a nice, long sleep. Doesn’t that sound good?”

“Dean.”

“And—and—and then tomorrow we can go on an enderman-killing adventure together. And then we’ll make a bunch of ender pearls so we can find a stronghold, and we’ll go there and kill the dragon and live happily ever after, and it’s gonna be _so_ great, McJones, just me and you and Barry and—”

“ _Dean_.”

McJones’s voice is hushed but startlingly urgent. Something about it makes Dean’s throat constrict, and he goes silent, swallowing. McJones clasps his hands in his lap almost regally.

“Listen to me,” he says, looking up at Dean. “I’m gonna die, and you know it.”

“I…” Dean’s eyes sting, and he blinks hard. “What if I run home and grab the milk?”

“You can’t. We’re way too far away. You wouldn’t make it in time.”

“I could try.”

But McJones just shakes his head. “Dean, it’s fine, I’ll be back next time. But right now, I have a lot of things I need to say and not very long to say them, so I need you to be quiet and pay attention.”

Dean hesitates, his mind scrambling for some way— _any_ way—to un-fuck this situation. But when it comes up empty, he nods slowly, resignation and misery coiling together inside of him.

“Good.” McJones rubs his cheek with the back of his fist. “First of all, when I die, you need to stay right here. Wait for the others to come get you. Don’t try to get out of the mineshaft by yourself; there might be more spiders close by, who knows, and we really don’t need to lose two people down here.

 “Also, don’t forget to get as many chicken feathers as you can before you head out for the stronghold. You guys’ll need a ton of arrows to take out the dragon and its healing crystals without getting too close, and you gotta have enough feathers to make the fletching properly. Get, like, twice as many as you think; running out in the End would be tantamount to death.”

He goes on, explaining how many ender pearls are needed to find a stronghold and activate a portal and what kinds of potions they might need and other things like that. Dean tries his best to focus, but that same, tight-chested nausea from before is back with a vengeance, splitting through his concentration. And the feeling only gets worse when he realizes that McJones’s words are starting to slur, running together into a slightly garbled soup. Like McJones physically can’t make his mouth work properly anymore.

Dean feels lightheaded.

After a minute, McJones breaks off his monologue to cough raspily again. “Oh, by the way,” he says, then, “I should probably give you my emeralds to hang onto, just in case. I mean, we worked so hard for them. I’d hate if they somehow got lost in this mess.”

“Y-yeah…”

McJones shifts forward onto his knees, and bracing his good arm on the wall of the mineshaft, he carefully pulls himself up to a stand. He reaches for his bag, undoing the clasp and holding the whole thing out with both hands. Blood spills down his left forearm, leaving red trails like war paint across his skin. “Here, take ‘em. And whatever else you need, I guess.”

He takes a step towards Dean. Two steps. Three steps.

And then he just pitches forward, falling like a ragdoll.

It’s sheer instinct that propels Dean in time to catch McJones around the middle, stopping him before he smacks face-first into the cold, hard floor. For a moment, they’re both frozen where they are, equally stunned. Then, Dean whispers, “Woah-ho _-ho_ there, buddy. Holy shit.” And, his eyes wide, he gently steadies McJones back on his feet.

McJones draws back as soon as he regains his balance, a strange shadow crossing over him. “I—I don’t—” He presses his lips together. “Sorry. I don’t know what that was. My legs just...gave out.”

“A-are you good now, though?”

“I’m kinda dizzy, but I think so...”

But his voice is nowhere near confident, and face is all twisted up with shock and confusion. It’s the first time he’s seemed genuinely distressed by what’s happening to him, which is a million times worse than the vague apathy he had before. If _McJones_ —one of the most levelheaded adventurers in their whole group—is this uneasy over something, then that means it’s even worse than Dean thought.

And the way McJones looks up close only confirms this theory: His skin is sallow, and his eyes are glazed over and sunken. One of his eyelids seems like it’s drooping lower than the other as well. He sways unsteadily in front of Dean, staring somewhere off into space, and a knot of dread settles in the pit of Dean’s stomach.

Finally, McJones pushes his bag into Dean’s arms. “The emeralds,” he says quietly.

“Right.”

Dean doesn’t move to open the bag, though. He just lets it fall to the ground beside him and stands there, hollow. McJones is right; they spent so fucking long finding those emeralds. But Dean doesn’t care anymore. Screw it. Screw everything. They’re just a bunch of green rocks. He’d happily throw every single one of them into lava himself, if only it would save McJones. But that’s not how this works.

Lowering his voice to match the hush McJones had, Dean asks, “Do you...do you wanna eat more, dude? I have potatoes.”

McJones puffs out his cheeks, his gaze flickering back up to Dean. But before he can say anything, his shoulders jerk, and suddenly he’s doubled over in another choking fit. His coughs have a gravelly hoarseness to them now that makes Dean’s spine tingle. The cool air down here doesn’t feel nice to him anymore. It’s just too much. Too confining. Dean wraps his arms around himself.

McJones’s coughing trails off into silence once more. He moves to drag a hand across his face. But then, abruptly, he stops. Stiffens. And Dean sees the strangest expression come over him. His mouth falls open, just a little. He makes this quiet, ragged sound in the back of his throat.

And then his face flashes white with pure, undiluted _terror_.

“Oh my god. _Oh my god_.” Fear rises like a flood, and Dean falls back into panicked babbling. “What’s wrong now? Are you okay? Oh my god.”

Impulsively, he reaches out for McJones, and McJones grabs at him, fingers digging vise-like into his elbows. McJones’s pupils are huge and dark behind his glasses, almost taking up the whole of his irises. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean’s reminded of what wild animals look like when they’re in danger. He’s never seen McJones quite this scared in his life.

“What’s going on? What’s wrong?” he says again, loud. He shakes McJones a little bit, which probably isn’t the best thing to do, but he isn’t thinking clearly.

McJones gives another strangled noise. “ _Dean_ ,” he croaks.

“What? What?!”

“I—I can’t _breathe_.”

Time slows. The words cut through Dean like a dagger.

_Oh no. No, no, no._

Dean stands motionless as McJones crumples. He’s coughing again, but the sound has gone weak and gurgly now. He’s clinging to Dean so hard it hurts. And Dean’s brain, his muscles, his _everything_ screams at him to fucking _do something_.

 _Do anything_.

_Help him._

But Dean can’t move. He’s powerless. Absolutely powerless.

McJones is still choking. Gasping futilely, making these horrible raspy noises. Pleading for a breath that just won’t come. His hands snap away from Dean and up to his mouth. He makes a wet sound, and suddenly there’s blood. Blood. Blood dripping from his lips. Blood on his hands. Blood pooling in the holes in his arm. Blood staining Dean’s shirt. Blood everywhere.

McJones’s chest is heaving in desperation, but he’s not even making any noise anymore. He’s shaking so hard he seems on the verge of splitting apart. His nostrils are flaring. His hands are scrabbling at his face, at his throat, leaving scratches along his skin. His fingers are turning blue at the tips. His eyes are red and watery and shot with horror so impenetrable it seems to swallow everything.

_He can’t breathe._

Dean can feel his mouth moving. He’s saying something. Shouting something. but he can’t hear himself over the roar in his head.

_He can’t breathe._

It screams in his thoughts over and over and over again. He’s tipping, verging on hysteria.

_He can’t—_

McJones collapses into Dean.

And all is quiet.

So quiet.

For a painful moment, Dean’s petrified. McJones is limp in his arms, heavy and still as stone, and it’s all Dean can do to not drop him in shock. Dean’s heart is beating so fast he can barely feel it anymore. There’s a distant buzz in his ears.

“...Stewart?” he says. His voice is small. Pitiful.

No answer. Not even a glimmer of movement. Dean knows—god, he _know_ s what this is. But he can’t quite make himself believe it.

Slowly, rigidly, he lowers himself down to a sitting position, carefully supporting the whole weight of McJones’s body. He lays McJones down on the ground, tucking his bag behind McJones’s head like a pillow. And after a long breath of hesitation, he presses two fingers to the squishy part of McJones’s neck, right beneath the curve of his jaw.

Dean waits, pleading silently, begging to just please, _please_ —

But there’s nothing. No kick of a pulse pushing back against Dean’s fingers. No flutter of McJones’s eyelids. Nothing at all.

He’s dead.

A shudder rocks through Dean, and he yanks his hand back. For a second, he flounders, his thoughts scattered all around him in shards. He’s still so tangled up with threads of panic, even as he feels his pulse begin to slow. Slowly, he tips his head forward to rest against the pads of his fingers, breathing out a quiet “ _Fuck_.”

What the hell is Dean supposed to do now? Just sit here and wait for the rescue brigade to find him? That’s what McJones told him to do, but it’s easier said than done. McJones’s goddamn corpse is staring him right in the face, and he’s practically jumping out of skin with anxiety. But it was McJones’s literal dying wish for him to not get his sorry ass killed as well, and besides, his limbs are too leaden for him to move if he tried. So that’s that.

But it doesn’t answer the bigger question, which is _what the hell are_ all _of them going to do now?_ McJones is gone. He’s dead and he’s gone and he’s not coming back until they’re finished with this world and starting all over again in a new one. This whole mining expedition wasn’t supposed to be dangerous; it was just meant to be downtime in between periods of high stress. They didn’t plan to lose one of their most valuable members in the midst of searching for fucking _emerald_.

And right at that moment, a horrible realization blows Dean sideways. It hits him in an instant, like a pickaxe to the skull, that this—this whole situation?

_It’s all his fucking fault._

All the pieces are coming together in his mind, laid out like a neatly-drawn map. It’s so obvious now, so painfully obvious that it hurts. _Dean_ was the one who insisted they go explore the mineshaft, even when McJones protested. _Dean_ was the one who rushed headlong into the spider den instead of just blocking it off. And, of course, _Dean_ was the one who decided to not bring the milk with him like a stupid fucking _idiot_.

And now McJones is dead, and the blood is all over Dean’s hands.

The numb feeling from before comes back in a rush, settling over Dean like a curtain of steel. His breath rumbles loud in his ears. After a moment, he closes his eyes, burrowing his face into his palms.

If only he’d been smart enough to grab the milk.

If only.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And part one finishes off with a bang. But this is only the beginning. I promise, we’re just getting started here. There’s so much more to come. Like I said above, the entire fic is already finished. Starting this coming week, I will be updating **every Friday afternoon EST** , so look out for that!  
>   
> This work uses a custom skin, by the way, so you might wanna make sure you don't have "hide work skins" checked in your preferences.  
> Side note, I'm aware that poison can’t kill you even on hardcore difficulty. It leaves you with half a heart at the least. But I had already plotted that part of the story before I realized, so let’s just pretend that’s not the case.  
>   
> I just want to offer a disclaimer that applies both to this chapter as well as the rest of the story moving forward: I have no medical training. I did my best to research any and all injuries that arise over the course of the plot and depict them in as realistic of a manner as possible. But research can only go so far, and some things necessitate being written somewhat unrealistically for dramatic and/or plot purposes. So don’t be looking for 100% medical accuracy here.  
>   
> Also, shoutouts to pheonomon on tumblr for giving me hope that ryzab isn’t dead with her own fic that she started writing a while back. I sent an anonymous message to her, like, a zillion months ago where I thanked her for keeping the ryzabs alive and mentioned how she helped me feel better about my own story, and she said to let her know when I finish it. So I guess, if you’re reading this, pheonomon, here it is.  
>   
> (Also also, pheonomon's a super talented artist, and she's drawn a lot of hardcore fanart. She’s inactive as of now, unfortunately, but even still, I cannot recommend her stuff enough. Go check her blog out.)  
>   
> Again, thank you so much for reading if you’ve gotten this far! I really, really appreciate it.  
>   
> See you Friday!


	2. Part Two

###### Part Two

The others find Dean faster than he expects. In order to get to him, they have to climb out of their own emerald mine, find the one he and McJones were digging, _and_ locate the mineshaft he stumbled upon. All that seems like it ought to be fairly time-consuming, but Dean catches the faint sounds of their voices calling out to him only a few minutes later. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he yells back, and then the four of them play a twisted game of Marco Polo for a little bit, echolocating back and forth through the mineshaft. 

The others’ shouts grow louder and louder until the three of them finally burst around the corner. They stand there for a moment—PBG, Jeff, and Barry, all clustered together—and just stare, taking in Dean, taking in McJones, taking in the whole mess they’ve stumbled upon.

Jeff is the first to break the silence. “Oh my god,” he says with a halting step forward. “What _happened_?”

“No, Stewart...” PBG murmurs as well, his fingers tangling in the hem of his shirt. As they approach, Dean stands up on trembling legs, digging his hand into his hair. The weight of three pairs of stunned eyes on him is almost too much to bear, and his own slide down, away, to anywhere he doesn’t have to face them directly.

“I found this fucking mineshaft on accident,” he starts, but his voice sounds all wrong. All thin and empty. “I wanted to take a break and check it out, so me and him went together. But then we ran into a crapton of cave spiders, and McJones got poisoned really bad. And I—” The words wad up his throat. He swallows and tries again. “And I didn’t bring any milk with me, so—so I couldn’t…”

But he can’t spit it out. He just lets his silence finish for him.

_I couldn’t._

“Oh crap, he got poisoned?” Jeff draws in a startled breath. “Shit. That’s really rough.”

“Is that what this is for?” Barry asks, pointing to Dean’s Great Wall of Keeping-out-the-Fucking-Spiders.

Dean nods sourly. “Yeah. Don’t go in there. It’s a one-way ticket to boneville.”

“Oh, I won’t. I can hear them.” Right as Barry says it, a particularly loud hiss floats through the rock. He shivers and turns away, maybe having flashbacks to the time he himself died to spiders way back when. Jeff studies the cobblestone wall as well for a moment before looking back down at McJones’s body.

“We—” his hand flutters to that spot on his chest, “—we all got over here as fast as we could as soon as we felt it happen. I was hoping so bad that it would turn out to be a false alarm or something, and—but—I mean, as if that’s ever happened.” He exhales sharply in an almost-laugh before rubbing his eyes. “…God, not McJones. Ugh. That really sucks.”

“What an awful way to go,” PBG agrees softly, his shoulders drawn in. “Jeez, and the Nether went so well, too. I thought we might even get to the End with five people, but...” He lowers his chin.

“Well,” Jeff says, resigned. “I guess we should probably head home now. It’s almost night.”

So they do. They gather up McJones and all of his stuff, and together, they make the trek back, like some kind of fucked-up parade or something. It’s not quite as late as Dean expected, but the sun is hanging low on the horizon, bleeding orange streaks across the indigo canvas of the sky. It’s beautiful in a way that kind of makes Dean want to cry forever.

As they walk, he recounts everything McJones told him in his dying monologue—at least, everything that he can still remember. And Jeff remarks, with a faint flicker of a smile, that that’s such a McJones thing to do; most people freak out in their last moments, but McJones just calmly accepts his fate and goes on expositing as usual.

Of course, that’s not actually what happened at all.

The memory of McJones’s face, torn to pieces with fear as his broken lungs slowly suffocated him, flashes in Dean’s head. For a nanosecond, he can feel McJones clawing at him all over again, desperate and pleading for Dean to save him. And he can feel his paralysis, his _uselessness_ , rooting him in place, leaving him without a single goddamn way to fix what _he’d_ —

With a violent shudder, Dean shoves the thought as far away as he can. Instead, he musters a feeble smile and nods in feigned agreement of Jeff’s words. There’s no point in correcting him.

Back at home, none of them bother to unpack properly; they just dump their bags and immediately start in on making McJones’s grave. Dean takes a moment to change out of his bloodstained shirt before joining them in the graveyard. Barry and Jeff do all the hard work of digging, their shovels moving in silent tandem, while Dean and PBG just hang back and watch—Dean because he’s pretty sure he’s in shock, and PBG because there’s kind of an unspoken rule that the brothers never have to help with each other’s funeral preparations.

Dean snags a glimpse at PBG out of the corner of his eye. PBG’s gaze is trained on the cross-shaped headstone marking the ever-deepening grave, his face unreadable. Studying him, Dean gets a feeling like there’s a rusty nail caught in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he says impulsively, the words coming out too quick.

There’s a long pause before PBG responds, as if he’d retreated so deep into his own mind he didn’t quite remember the outside world still existed.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Dean repeats. “For...”

But he trails off. What the hell is he supposed to say? _Sorry for getting your brother horrifically killed?_ Yeah, that’s tasteful.

PBG picks up on the unsaid meaning, though. He shakes his head slowly, shadows playing on his face and casting dark crescents beneath his eyes. Quietly, so Dean has to lean in to hear him, he says, “No, ‘s not your fault. How were you supposed to know?”

“...I guess.” The dusky chill in the air pricks at Dean even through his clothes. He wraps his arms around himself, his shoulders climbing towards his ears. “I just—I feel so responsible. It was fucking awful. I literally—I watched him _die_ , and there was nothing I could do. Nothing. I just had to sit there and let the poison take him. Jesus.”

PBG lets out a long breath, and again, a few moments pass before his reply. “It coulda been any of us, Dean. I didn’t have any milk either, y’know. I mean, why would you even think to grab it? We were just mining for emerald.” He presses into Dean, their elbows bumping together in a way that’s supposed to be comforting. “It was just crappy luck, that’s all.”

 Dean doesn’t believe that for a second, but he shrugs anyway. “Maybe.”

A little ways away from the two of them, Jeff and Barry are starting to even out the walls of the grave into something neater, something more fit from a body. It’s fairly deep—when Jeff hops down into the hole to clear out a few stray rocks at the bottom, the sides come up past his knees. Dean stares at Jeff in a vacantly transfixed way as he lobs the rocks at a nearby tree.

“So you’re okay?” he asks PBG eventually.

“Oh. Yeah, I’m fine. I mean, it sucks. I really wish he hadn’t died. But like you said he told you, he’ll be back next world. It’s not like he’s gone _for_ _good_ or anything.”

“Right. I know.”

Then, PBG scoffs a little, poking his tongue out from between his teeth. “And anyway, I don’t guess McJones ever loses any sleep over _my_ deaths, so why should I get upset over _his_?”

It’s meant to be a joke, just like what Jeff said earlier about McJones baring his own demise with a stiff upper lip. Because _ha ha, McJones doesn’t give a shit when anyone dies, not even he himself. What an asshole, amirite?_ It’s a little dig at McJones to lighten the mood, and Dean and PBG both chuckle weakly at it.

But the thing is, it’s not true at all. It’s so far from being true that _that’s_ almost funny in itself. Because sure, McJones usually doesn’t get visibly emotional over this kind of stuff, and he and PBG definitely don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. But to say that McJones doesn’t care about PBG, to say that he doesn’t think twice when PBG dies—

It’s just a huge goddamn lie.

Dean’s known the two of them long enough to see past their heated arguments and endless disagreements. And he’s come to realize that, deep down, McJones has something of a fierce protective streak when it comes to PBG. The truth is, he would probably steal the fucking sun right out of the sky without a second thought if he believed that would keep his little brother safe and happy forever. End of story.

Dean thinks about this for a while, and he’s pretty sure PBG’s thinking about it too, because PBG doesn’t say anything else after that. And when Jeff and Barry, having finished digging the grave, finally bring out McJones’s body for burial, Dean feels PBG shift uncomfortably beside him.

The four of them gather in a semicircle around the completed grave, and gently, Jeff and Barry lay McJones down to rest. They’ve cleaned some of the blood off of him, but he still just looks so pale and small and _broken_ sprawled out in his dirt hole. His glasses are crooked, and for some reason, that really fucking bothers Dean. It’s stupid that that’s what his brain chooses to fixate on, but he can’t get it out of his head.

A moment passes. Dean twists a little, glancing over at PBG again. His lids have gone red around the rims, and there’s a little bit of a twitch in the muscley part of his jaw. And then, right before Dean’s eyes, his _I’m-fine_ façade shatters into a thousand pieces and crumbles away, leaving bare a face so raw with brotherly love that Dean feels like he’s going to break down sobbing just seeing it. So he quickly averts his gaze and turns back to McJones’s body in the grave.

This part never gets easier. They’ve all been through it dozens and dozens of times by now, but it’s still just as painful as it was back in the beginning. It’s become a familiar hurt at this point, sure, like an old scab you keep picking at, but familiar and easy are nowhere near the same. _Nothing’s_ easy about having to bury your friends over and over and fucking over again.

They go around the semicircle, each of them offering a few words in eulogy. Dean knows he says something when his turn comes, but he’s not really sure what it is, because he can’t stop staring at the jagged slant of McJones’s glasses on his nose. Part of Dean itches to just reach down into the grave and fix them. As if that would fix everything else too.

They briefly consider burying McJones with the diamond Dean found in the mineshaft but ultimately decide not to, because McJones would shit a brick if he found out they wasted valuable resources for purely sentimental reasons. So they each just gather up a handful of the earth, the dirt staining their fingers as dark as the night tumbling down around them, and they silently scatter it across the grave.

Then, Jeff and Barry take up their shovels once more, undoing all the hard work they did just a few minutes ago. PBG watches them almost reverently as they fill the hole, his doe eyes dark and shiny. And Dean thinks slowly, incredulously, _How is it possible that_ he’s _holding up better than I am?_

And then the funeral’s over.

Done. Finished. Just like that. Just like McJones.

They return home at long last and share a solemn dinner, pretending not to notice all the blank spaces where McJones should be, like missed notes in a symphony. They turn in early, bidding each other quiet _G’night_ s, and Dean listens to the sound of the others drifting off one by one until he’s the only person still awake.

He rolls over on his side, pressing his face into his pillow in an attempt to get comfortable. His whole body is shot through with exhaustion, but sleep won’t come. Every time he closes his eyes, he’s back in that goddamn mineshaft, powerless to do anything other than stand there and let McJones waste away.

He still doesn’t understand what the hell even _happened_. Poison isn’t supposed to kill you—at least, not like that. It’s not supposed to make you choke and writhe and die covered in your own blood. He can still remember way back in the very first world, when he and McJones went exploring a mineshaft and got ambushed by a whole nest of cave spiders, just like today. But even though they each got poisoned, like, fifty times over, they came out of it _just_ _fine_.

So what happened this time?

Dean lies there stiffly for a while longer, trying to will himself to sleep while at the same time keeping himself from replaying McJones’s death on loop in his head. But when it becomes clear that neither of those things is going to happen, he sits up and slides out of bed. Moving as quietly as possible, he pads out of their small bedroom and into the main space of the house.

It’s too dark for him to see particularly well, but muscle memory guides him to the proper chest. He flips it open, roots around inside, and produces what he’s looking for a moment later. He holds it protectively against himself and then turns, slipping outside without even bothering to jam on his boots.

It’s so dangerous to be out alone at night, especially unarmed. But that’s a risk Dean’s willing to take. Keeping an eye out for any monsters lurking in the shadows, he tromps around to the back of the house. Back to their graveyard, now standing two strong. He stops in front of the twin crosses, almost imposing in the darkness, as if they’ve swelled to thrice their actual size. The dry night air plays on Dean’s skin as he stares down at them.

The first is for their only newbie this time around, an inquisitive lady with wide eyes that just pulled you in. She reminded Dean a little bit of what a forest elf might be like, darting around everywhere with an almost impossible grace to her. But the sad thing was, she just didn’t _take_ with the world. All the dangers and unknowns that Dean and everyone else had long since adjusted to only terrified her, made her scream at them and demand answers that no one could give her. She couldn’t stay calm under pressure, always choosing to flee even when it would be safer to stay and fight. Her fear and confusion built and built until it finally came to a head in the Nether; they were ambushed by a pack of blazes, and in her resulting terror, she stumbled and fell into the lava sea below.

It was sad, obviously, but in a distant sort of way. They barely knew her; she was as afraid of them as she was everything else, and she stayed an arm’s length from them at all times. As much as they tried to get her to open up, she saw them as enemies and refused to offer more than an inch of trust. But they held a funeral for her all the same.

And as for the second gravestone…

Dean approaches it slowly, being careful not to tread on the fresh plot of dirt. He peers at the sign stuck in the middle of the cross, where the four ends come together, and reads the words silently to himself:

 

_R.I.P McJones_

_The best emerald-finder of them all._

On the walk back home, they’d added up all their emeralds and found that together, the five of them had collected exactly forty-five. Just enough for all the bookshelves they needed. And they also realized that McJones himself had found more emeralds than anyone else, so they decided to memorialize the accomplishment on his tombstone. It’s such a small, insignificant part of all that McJones has done in this particular world, but Dean thinks it’s oddly fitting.

He steps back, checking around himself once more to make sure there’re no creepers about to blow. Then, he lowers his head.

“Uh,” he starts unsurely. “Hey...dude. Professor. McJones.”

He’s never done the whole _talking-to-graves_ thing before, but this time, it somehow seems like something that needs to happen.

“This is probably really fucking weird, and also you’re dead so you—you can’t hear me anyway, but…I brought you something.”

Carefully, he holds out what he retrieved from the chest a few minutes ago: a little glass bottle. _The_ little glass bottle. The one that could’ve saved McJones’s life, if only Dean had thought to take it. Dean pops the cork out with his thumb, and he feels it bounce off his foot and roll away into the grass. Then, hesitating for just the barest fraction of a second, he tips the bottle and begins to empty the milk onto the dirt of McJones’s grave.

“I know it’s too late for this, but—” Dean’s fingers dig into the glass. “Fuck. I don’t know. This is so dumb. You’d hate this. You’d laugh at me for a literal _year_ if you knew I was doing this.”

But still, he stands there, pouring out the bottle until there’s nothing left. Until the ground is soggy with regret and missed opportunities. Finally, Dean lifts his eyes to look at the headstone again. For a moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the wind as it blusters through his hair. His feelings burble around inside him, everything that’s happened over the course of the past day boiled down into an indecipherable stew of emotion.

Feeling a little bit strangled, he blurts, “I—I’ll visit you. Your grave. Every day. I’ll keep you updated with what’s going on. I’ll do it.”

The empty milk bottle in his hand suddenly weighs a thousand pounds. Gripping the neck of it, he twists and hurls it into the ground with all his strength. It shatters instantly, glass shards scattering across the dirt like stars in the sky.

Dean remains frozen in place for a beat, staring at the fragments of what used to be the bottle. Then, he breathes out shakily into the silky air, and he glances up, snatching one last glimpse of the grave before he has to slip back inside.

“I swear to god, Stewart,” he hisses, voice ripped raw, “I’ll visit you.”

* * *

But as much as he means it in the moment, it’s not a promise he can keep.

Their lives aren’t built for mourning. They can have their funeral, they can have their somber couple of hours, but after that, the responsibilities start piling up. They just don’t have time to visit the graveyard every day for closure. The harsh truth is, there’s work to do, and no matter how many people die, they have to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and get back to it.

They have to make the long journey to the village and hand over their hard-earned emeralds in return for the fifteen bookshelves for enchanting. They have to throw themselves into potion-brewing, the rest of them struggling to follow Jeff’s lead because even now, he’s still the only one of them who knows how to do it properly. They have to slay as many endermen as they can find and cut out their pearly eyes with the careful slice of a blade.

And then Jeff gets shot off a cliff by a skeleton archer.

So they have to hold a funeral for him too, interring him beside McJones and constructing him a matching cross adorned with a sappy superlative of his own. Afterwards, PBG cries for an hour straight and swears revenge on skeletonkind, spitting fire and grief with every word that he says. But he too picks himself up, wipes his swollen eyes with the back of his fist, and gets on with his life, just like always.

Because they have to enchant their weapons and armor with the aid of their new bookshelves. They have to painstakingly sprinkle the pearls with blaze powder in order to make eyes of ender. They have to comb through all of their supplies, packing food and arrows and anything else they might possibly need on their quest. And on one frosty morning, when they’ve finally prepared everything to the best of their ability, they have set out to slay the dragon, knowing full well they might not survive to see their home ever again.

Just like always.

The journey is long, tedious, and boring as sin. The eyes of ender are hard to use but easy to lose track of. The three of them keep having to detour for minutes on end just to scavenger hunt for the fallen eyes. To say that it’s frustrating would be a massive understatement. When they finally locate a stronghold a day and a half later, the sense of absolute _relief_ that falls over them is palpable.

The feeling’s also short-lived, though. Once they cautiously mine into the roof of the stronghold and drop down, they end up in the middle of an old, dilapidated library, the dark air thick with dust and cobwebs. _Where were all these fucking bookshelves a week ago?_ Dean says under his breath, looking around, and PBG barks out a laugh tinged with hysteria. But when they weave through the shelves and slip through the narrow, crumbling doorway, they find themselves in a wide room with passages branching out in all directions. And it quickly sets in that they have no idea where to go.

They try to be orderly about searching for the portal room, but it’s nearly impossible when one passage turns into two, which each turn into three more. And every hallway looks identical, so they can’t even tell where they have and haven’t been already. Before they know it, they’ve been wandering around for another hour with nothing to show for it. Even worse, they’re nibbling intermittently at their limited food supply and burning through the meager number of torches they can carry.

So they give up on trying to navigate the twisty maze of the passages and decide do it the lazy man’s way instead: mining straight through the walls. Their pickaxes make quick work of the already-rotted stone bricks, which leads Dean to question the structural integrity of the ceiling. He turns to ask Barry if there’s a chance the whole stronghold is about to collapse in on them at any moment, but before he can get the words out, he feels a sudden, strange tickle on his foot.

His head snaps down to see a silverfish skittering up his boot, aiming for his calf with its pincers. He gives a shout of alarm and swings his pick frantically, connecting hard with its squishy, segmented body. It's sent rolling a few feet to the side, squirming and struggling to right itself. Dean whips his sword from his sheath and aims to cut the thing in two, but before he can, it goes rigid and lets out a shrill cry that pierces Dean to the core.

In that moment, another silverfish slides out of a fissure in the stone, turning on Dean as well. It’s quickly followed by a third and then a fourth. Dean tries to fend them off with his sword, but the more he attacks them, the more they shriek, and the more allies come to their defense. It only takes a few seconds for Dean to be cornered by a horde of them, his back pressed into the wall and his heart tripping around in his chest. He yells to Barry and PBG for help, and they’re right there in an instant, reaching for him, swords drawn, trying to free him from the steadily growing mob around his ankles.

But it’s still not enough. In a flash, the silverfish are crawling up his calves, and Dean goes blind with panic for half a second. His muscles twitch with adrenaline, and he moves to run, to jump away, to just get the hell out of there. But his legs are trapped under the mass of the silverfish, so the only direction he goes is down.

Down, down, _down_. Slamming hard against the floor and knocking his jaw into his upper teeth so hard it rattles his brain. His sword is sent scattering out of his hand.  And then the silverfish are _everywhere_ , fleshy bodies on top of him, writhing and hissing and flashing their hungry, black eyes. There are dozens of them by now, and their needle-like pincers feel like fire where they slit through Dean. He yelps, trying to push them away, but they’re too quick, too slippery.

And, before he even realizes what’s going on, they’re at his neck, tearing deep into his skin and ripping away at the veins pulsing beneath.

Dean feels the hot gush of blood before he feels the pain. It flows down the side of his neck and pools around his head, thick and smelling harshly of copper. His vision blurs again, and he reaches out, grasping at nothing. A cry wells up in his chest, but all that leaves his mouth is a wet gurgle. The silverfish are still biting him, still shredding open his throat, and fuck, it hurts, it _hurts_ —

And then, all at once, he’s sinking. Falling away from the world. Everything’s dulled. PBG’s screaming, the weight of the silverfish, the excruciating pain of their pincers—it’s all distant. Dreamlike. Fuzzy. Calm.

He’s tired. So, so tired. He doesn’t even have the strength to move.

His mind darkens. A thousand torches going out with a single breath of air. Tendrils of peace enveloping him. Pulling him back.

He slips away from his skin. Seeps into the fog.

Sinks beneath the surface.

Goes.

 

 

 

 

_there’s_

_nothing._

_and yet,_

_there’s everything._

_he’s awake and asleep._

_warm and cold._

_everywhere and nowhere._

_endless and finite, like the sky._

_a sky surrounding him. holding him. singing to him._

_but then. his skin whispers with dull sensation. there’s something, he realizes._

_something is there. calling to him. guiding him forward._

_his nerve endings light up, one by one. his fingers and toes. legs and arms._

_somewhere. somewhere far away. somewhere close._

_he feels it with all of himself._

_something is reaching for him._

_so he reaches back._

_reaches, reaches,_

_and connects._

_the sky melts away._

_in the fraction of an instant,_

_he plummets down._

_everything rises to meet him._

_he stretches out_

_with both hands_

_and he_

_he—_

 

Dean wakes up lying on the ground.

Immediately, his hands fly to his throat, and he gasps so sharply he goes lightheaded. But of course, there’s nothing there. No silverfish, no torn skin, no cascade of blood. His neck is whole again. Exhaling, he lets his arms drop down.

Dean’s always a little bit disoriented when he first comes to like this, so he stays where he is for a minute or so, flexing all his limbs and digits to reacquaint himself with them. Then, when the beat of his pulse has slowed back to normal, he stands up. The sudden change in angle sends his head spinning, and his eyes cloud over with static. But it clears after a just few, quick seconds, and he finally gets to take a look around where he is. Where they’ve all wound up this time.

He’s in the midst of an endless prairie, stretching off into the horizon as far as the eye can see. It’s interrupted briefly by a thick forest standing some ways away, and beyond that, a distant cluster of mountains, but otherwise, the land is flat and empty. It’s warm—a welcome change from the last world—and there’s a gentle breeze that ripples the knee-high grass like waves in the ocean. Not too far away, a glimmering brook snakes lazily through the vegetation. The sun is hovering midway up the clear sky, a soft, midmorning light spilling across Dean’s face.

He rolls his shoulders back, shaking out the cricks in his spine, and a smile crawls its way across his face. _Yeah_ , he thinks, _this’ll do just fine_.

There’re several different types of worlds they bounce back and forth between, types with rules so different from each other that it’s impossible to get them mixed up. Like the ones where you can literally dig straight down to hell instead of taking a portal, or the ones with the zombies that infect you and leave you nauseous, delirious, and hanging on the brink of death. But by the cut of the land, Dean can tell this is same kind of world that they were in last time. Okay, cool. He doesn’t mind that at all; he’s gotten pretty good at this brand of world. The others, not so much.

Then, for the first time since he stood up, Dean notices the figures of his friends scattered all around him. This takes him by surprise; he’s usually one of the last ones to wake up, and PBG always makes a big show of hassling him for it. But now, he can make out PBG still sprawled out in the grass about twenty yards away, completely dead to the world. Dean feels a flash of smugness— _who’s the lazy one_ now _, Austin?_ —and in the back of his mind, he goes to work planning how he’s going to stick it to PBG later.

Jeff’s lain out near PBG, and Dean sees who he thinks is probably Barry a little ways from the two of them. There’s also another figure to the side that could be Luke, but Dean’s too far to make out the person’s face or build. And then, finally, closest to Dean out of all of them, is a lady. She’s on her side, turned away from him, but he can tell right away that she’s a newbie. Someone they’ve never met before. That’s exciting; Dean loves having new people to hang out with and get to know. Plus, considering that the vast majority of them are men, it’s always nice when there’s women around to shake things up.

—Wait.

A twinge goes off in Dean’s brain. Something’s not right here. They’re definitely missing someone. Dean quickly scans the field again, making sure he didn’t overlook anyone, but no, he’s right. Where the _hell_ is—

 “Oh good, somebody else is awake. I was getting kinda bored all by myself.”

The voice floats over from behind, and Dean freezes. His eyes snap open so wide they feel like they’re going to roll right out of their sockets. Slowly, heart kicking up again in his chest, he turns.

And there stands McJones, angling a half-smile at Dean from maybe ten feet away, looking confident and wind-swept and beautiful and _alive_.

So, so alive.

A tsunami of emotion crashes over Dean, knocking the breath right out of his lungs. Suddenly, his legs are nothing but jelly, and all he can do is hover there, gaping. Drinking McJones in.

Oh, _McJones_. He can hear literal fucking angels singing in his head. McJones, McJones, McJones. His adventure boy. His one and only. Ho- _lee_ shit, he might cry. Like, full-on just start bawling like a baby, right here, right now.

But then, McJones’s mouth dips, and his eyebrow quirks, and Dean realizes that he’s been staring for way too fucking long. Embarrassingly long. For a moment and a half, he flounders, searching for some way to save face, to come out of this situation without looking like an absolute maniac.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he blurts, “Hey, come here often?” And he immediately cringes, because that’s probably one of the dumbest things to ever come out of his mouth. But in his defense, okay, there’s not exactly a standard etiquette for what to say when you see someone for the first time after they died horribly in your arms.

To his surprise, though, McJones actually snickers. “No,” he says with that vague, Southern lilt he has, “can’t say that I do.”

Dean tries to think of something to reply with, but there really isn’t any way to top that one-liner of the year he just busted out with, so he settles for a stupidly-wide grin instead. He’s—he’s over the fucking moon, honestly. He can’t even put into words just how _elated_ he is. McJones, alive and well again. Not choking and bleeding and dying. He knew this would happen—it always happens, and McJones even reminded him of that in his final minutes—but somehow, this particular time, it feels like magic.

Standing there, Dean’s seized with a burning desire to just _touch_ McJones. God, it sounds creepy even in Dean’s head, but all he wants is to hold McJones, even if it’s only for a second. To hug him tight, to feel his skin and his pulse and the whole warmth of his body. To make sure he’s actually real and that this isn’t just a happy dream Dean’s having.

“So, did you win?”

Dean’s so lost in thought that the sound of McJones speaking up again makes him jump. “What?” he asks after a breath.

“Did you win?” McJones repeats, taking a few, loping steps through the grass to get closer to Dean. “You know, find the portal, kill the dragon, save the world, et cetera, et cetera?”

“Oh. R—right. Uh. No, I—” Dean’s words come out tangled, “—I died, actually. In the—the stronghold. There were a fuckton of silverfish, and th—they all came at me at once. It—yeah. Yeah.” He doesn’t know why the fuck he’s having so much trouble talking all of a sudden. It’s like someone’s tied his tongue in a knot or something.

In front of him, McJones nods soberly. “So close to the portal? Man, that sucks.”

“Yeah.” Dean kicks at the ground. “But we still coulda won, maybe. You’ll have to ask Austin and Barry.”

McJones nods again, slower and more thoughtful this time. Then, he breaks back into a smile, and Dean’s suddenly _bursting_ with things to say. He wants to tell McJones about absolutely everything, from going to the village and getting the bookshelves to their failed attempts at potion-making to finding the stronghold and being attacked.

But before he can wrangle his voice back into submission, a soft cry cuts through the air. Dean’s and McJones’s heads snap over in unison to find that the lady that Dean noticed earlier is now fully conscious and sitting upright, as stiff as a board. For a long second, she looks at the two of them, confusion and fear swirling together in her dilated, gray eyes.

McJones crosses over to her in a few steps, deftly hopping his way through the grass. He offers her a hand, which she blinks at before hesitantly taking and allowing him to help her gently to her feet. As soon as she’s up, though, she jerks away and just stands there, wrapping her arms around herself. Dean studies her from where he is. She has an angular face with a sloping nose, ears that stick out a little bit, and ruby-red hair knotted off in a bow near the top of her head. And also, Dean notices abruptly, she’s tiny. Like, ridiculously so. She barely comes up to McJones’s chin, making him look like a giant standing in front of her.

After a moment, McJones leans down just a little and murmurs something to her. It’s too quiet for Dean to make out the exact words, but he catches their soft, reassuring tone. And whatever it is must work, because she answers with a slight smile, and a bit of the defensive tautness leaves her shoulders.

Dean’s considering going over to welcome their newbie too, but when he hears more voices popping up around him, he realizes that the rest of the others are starting to wake up as well. So, changing his mind, he turns and clomps over to where PBG is, bent on making fun of him for not being the first one up this time.

* * *

What it turns out is this: Dean’s totally wrong about Luke being back. Instead, in his place is another newbie, a stocky guy with sideswept blond hair and thin-framed glasses who’s just as confused and apprehensive as the girl is. But Dean barely gets more than a single look at him before Jeff whisks them both off to have the Talk with them.

The Talk is not nearly as exciting or sex-related as it sounds. It’s the part when Jeff sits down and explains to any and all of the newbies they’ve picked up what exactly the hell is going on. Jeff always does the Talk by himself, but Dean would really love to sit in on it sometime, because he can’t begin to imagine how Jeff explains all this bullshit in a way that sounds even remotely reasonable:

“ _Oh, yeah, we don’t know where we are or how we got here, but that doesn’t matter. We just have to live off the land, trying to achieve some random, predetermined goal. Also, everything wants to kill us. It’s okay though, because if we die, we just wake up in a new world and start all over again. Not you guys, though. Unless you’re lucky enough to come back at some arbitrary point in the future,_ your _deaths are going to be permanent. ...We think. Truthfully, we have no clue what the fuck is going on. Everything I just said is largely guesswork. Mostly, we’re just trying to die in the least horrible ways possible. But anyways, welcome!”_

Smooth.

Somehow, Jeff pulls it off, though—at least, most of the time he does. He’s got a comforting air to him, kind of like a mom, so maybe that’s part of it. And he has a trustworthy face too. Honestly, he could swear up and down that the sun shines purple, and as long as he smiled just right and flashed those godly cheekbones of his, Dean would probably buy it. But they’ll see what their newbies think about the whole thing.

While Jeff’s busy delivering the Talk, Dean and the others make the journey over to the distant forest to start gathering wood. PBG takes off like a rocket, stumbling through the grass like an overexcited puppy that’s finally been let out of its cage. McJones yells at him that he’s going to trip and break his face if he doesn’t calm down, and PBG yells back that McJones isn’t the frickin’ boss of him, and Barry snickers to himself, and everything’s just... _normal_. It’s so normal that it almost makes Dean’s head spin, like he’s still got one foot in the previous world where everyone was dead. It’s weird.

Once they reach the trees, they quickly make axes and go to work gathering logs, chattering animatedly amongst themselves. Dean tries to strike up a conversation with McJones a couple of times, but McJones is occupied with other things; less than a half-hour in and he’s already busy micromanaging everyone around him, reminding them to grab all the saplings they find so they can plant trees closer to their house and maybe not have to walk half a mile every time they need wood. So Dean lets it go. They’ll have plenty of time to catch up later.

A little while passes before Jeff and the newbies finally come to join them. Dean’s heart crawls up into his throat when he hears their voices drift across the plains, and he spins around fast, almost dropping his axe on his foot. He watches their figures steadily grow as they approach, and he gnaws on his lip. He really hopes Jeff was able to work his magic on them; he seriously doesn’t want a repeat of what happened with their newbie from last world. Really, he doesn’t want a repeat of _anything_ about the last world. It was a mess. He just wants to have a nice, happy time this go-round.

To his immense relief, when the three of them get closer, he’s able to make out the easygoing slouch to their postures and the casual way they’re walking. A second later, Jeff’s bubbly voice rises up into the air as he calls out, “Hey guys, we’re back!”

Tossing their axes aside, Dean and the others gather at the edge of the trees to greet them. There’s an odd formality to it, as if Jeff and the newbies are knights returning to their kingdom after a grand battle. ...Well, actually, when Dean thinks about it, the newbies are more like kindergarteners on their first day of school than heroic knights. Their gazes dart around nervously as they stand there, flanking Jeff. They don’t look half as terrified as they did before, though, which is a good sign. Once, the girl happens to catch Dean’s eye in her glancing around, and she even returns the grin he offers her. She’s barefoot, he notices, her boots hanging loosely from her fingers. Huh.

“So, this is everyone,” Jeff is saying to the newbies, gesturing around the small circle they’ve formed with a sweep of his arm. He points to each of them as he says their name: “That’s Barry, McJones, PBG, and Dean. And you already know me.” He smiles. “And that’s it! All five of us.”

“Yeah, I know we might seem like kind of a small group,” PBG adds, “but trust me, it won’t feel that way for long. Seven people adds up fast.”

Jeff nods. “Seven of us in the same room all, like, talking at the same time and trying to get a million different things done feels more like seventy people sometimes. I mean, take Dean over there—he’s practically fifteen people all by himself. You’ll be hearing a _lot_ of him here.”

“ _Oh_!” Dean makes a noise of feigned outrage. “Wow, really, Jeff? _Really_?”

“Hey, Dean’s great! He’s always got my back! He—he even just made my axe for me!” PBG interjects.

“See? PBG appreciates me!” Dean says.

“That’s right, I’m a _good_ friend, unlike Jeff!” PBG shoots Jeff a smug look.

“Oh man.” Barry’s eyes bounce back and forth between them. “The alliances are already forming, huh? Well, I guess I’ll be on Team Jeff, just to even things out.”

Jeff laughs. “Thanks, Barry.”

“No problem, buddy.”

“That means you’re the tiebreaker, McJones.” PBG sticks out his chin. “So who do you choose, Team Jeff or Team Dean?”

McJones regards them all with an expression that says he’s amused by everything that’s happening but really wishes he wasn’t.

“ _Team Dean_ ,” Dean stage-whispers to him. He blinks back, and the creases that form around his cheeks give away the smile he’s fighting.

“I guess I have to go with Team Jeff, then,” he says.

“Aw, you traitor!” Dean yells, smacking his fist into his palm. “God, y’all suck! Me and PBG are seceding from this group!”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Jeff cuts in before anyone can reply to Dean’s declaration, and he looks back to the newbies. “Now that you know _us_ —” Jeff motions first to the guy and then the girl, “—guys, this is Chad, and that’s Dodger.”

“Hey,” Chad says to all of them, adjusting his glasses on his nose. He has a nasally, almost metallic-sounding voice, kind of like a kazoo.

Next to him, Dodger waves politely. “Hello there!”

 _Dodger_ ’s kind of a kickass name, Dean thinks, which is fitting, because she looks like a kickass lady. There’s this fierce flicker in her eyes that reminds him of himself in the best way, and something about it tugs on him like a string.

With the introductions finally out of the way, they get back to gathering wood. Jeff sticks with Chad to show him the ropes, and Dodger’s about to head off with them too, but impulsively, Dean calls out and volunteers to take her instead. Which, he realizes a minute later when she’s standing beside him and staring at a small, bushy, birch tree, was probably a mistake. He always loves buddying up with the newbies, but he’s also self-aware enough to know he’s definitely not the best person to be mentoring them right off the bat. Someone like Jeff is a way better fit for that. Plus, if Dodger looked tiny beside McJones, she’s _miniscule_ next to Dean, and the wooden axe he handed her is way too big, especially for just starting out. Dean rubs his jaw, thinking about the best way to go about this.

After a second or two, Dodger looks up at him. “…Dean, right?” she asks.

“Yup, that’s me.”

“So, what’re we doing here? Just getting firewood?” She aims a wobbly practice swing at the trunk of the tree. “Oh fuck, this is heavier than it looks. Wow.”

Dean bites back an amused snort. “Well, we need the wood so we can make planks, and then from the planks we can make stuff like crafting tables and chests and doors and shit. Plus, once we get coal, we can chop the planks to make sticks for torches. And you’ll always want to have a ton of torches on you. Like, as many as possible, especially for when you’re mining. ‘Cause bad shit goes down if you let yourself get stuck in the dark.”

“Um.”

A sheepish grin curls Dodger’s lips. She smiles in this toothy, lopsided kind of way that makes Dean feel instantly like he’s known her for years. “Okay, that definitely sounds cool,” she begins slowly, “but to be honest, my dude, you totally lost me after _planks_.”

And then, she dissolves into laughter so bright and warm that Dean can’t help but join in. They stand there for a moment, just giggling together over nothing.

When Dean eventually manages to compose himself, he says, “Nah, you’re good. It was the same for me when I was starting out.” He reaches out a hand for the axe. “Here, lemme have that back. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite things about Dean is how he always ends up befriending all of the guests in, like, two seconds. And the really interesting thing is, he actually _relates_ to them over their struggles, because he was there too, once, and he knows exactly what they’re feeling. It’s really sweet. 
> 
> Also, the introduction of Dodger! Dodger’s so cool! I don’t actually know that much about her, but I’d love to see her back on hardcore someday. I know she’s super busy being a mom, so I don’t know if that’ll ever happen, but it’s a nice idea. And also, her portrait has a really great design, and it would be awesome to see it in the updated art style with multiple expressions.
> 
> See you Friday!


	3. Part Three

###### Part Three

They only spend about another ten minutes collecting wood, but that’s all it takes for Dean to fall completely in friend-love with Dodger. She’s just so—so _cool_ and upbeat and quick-witted. She actually kinda reminds Dean of Lucah a little bit. Admittedly, Dodger isn’t as much of a concerned mom as Lucah is—calling everyone _sweetie_ and tricking them into talking about their feelings and all that—but she seems to have that same penchant for, as Lucah herself puts it, _the dumb shit._ And seeing how Lucah’s, like, Dean’s best friend ever, that gives Dodger another hundred points in his book.

It’s nice; Dean hasn’t really been able to connect with someone new for a long time. The previous world marked the end of a several-worlds-long newbie dry streak, everyone that showed up having been either a regular or a returner. And, of course, they barely got to meet last world’s newbie anyway. So Dean’s pretty much over the moon for Dodger, and the two of them end up talking a mile a minute as they head out of the forest, wading side by side through the grass with their arms stacked full of logs.

When they rejoin the others back where they first woke up and toss the wood they’ve gathered into a haphazard pile, PBG says, “We should probably split up now, right?”

“Yeah,” Jeff agrees, shielding his eyes as he peers up into the sky. “Sun’s already pretty high, so we gotta get going.”

It’s become something of a tradition with them to all have a big meal together on the very first night of a new world. The way they see it is, it’s really the only time everyone’s guaranteed to be alive, so why not celebrate before everything goes to hell in a handbasket? Of course, it’s never a very lavish celebration; they don’t have much time to prepare, so their house is often just a glorified hole in the side of a hill, and the feast itself is nothing more than apples and cooked meat.

But that’s not important. What really matters is that they’re all together, regulars and newbies alike, having a good time. They make a party of it, sitting around and eating and laughing and chatting for hours, not just about this new world, but about the last one too. They run through all the highs and lows, all the successes and failures, all the deaths and, if they’re lucky, the survivals. It’s almost a review of sorts, and it’s something they’ve really come to love and expect, so there’s always a sense of urgency on first days to get everything ready in time for sundown.

Jeff looks at the large pile of logs for a moment. “I’ll get started on the house,” he offers. No surprise there; Jeff’s quite literally the homemaker of their little group. He loves building things and making them look all pretty. No one else could design half as cozy of a home as he can.

“Oh, I saw some cows and chickens and stuff back over by the trees,” PBG pipes up, waving his hand in the general direction of the forest. “I can get food for us to start cooking.”

“I’ll go with you, Austin. It’ll be faster that way, and then we can help Jeff with the house when we get back,” McJones says.

Jeff turns to the rest of them who haven’t yet been assigned jobs. “Sweet. So that means—Barry, can you start a mine? We need cobblestone and coal, like, asap.”

“On it.”

“And Chad, Dodger, Dean, you guys can just—”

“I’ll stick with McJones,” Dean breaks in. “I’m in the mood for a good slaughter anyway.” He grips his sword and inches closer to McJones, but Jeff frowns, holding up a hand to stop him.

“No, Dean, we need you down in the mines.”

“Yeah, you think I can chaperone the newbies all by myself?” Barry crosses his arms. “I need backup!”

Dean makes a face. “What, you’re saying I can’t go hang out with McJones?”

“What am _I_ , chopped liver?” PBG says under his breath. Everyone ignores him.

“Two people is more than enough to go hunting. They won’t even be gone for that long. And like Barry said, you gotta help him teach Chad and Dodger how to mine,” Jeff tells him.

“Aw, come on, this is bullshit!” Dean cries. “McJones is my adventure boy! You’re really splitting us up?”

Dodger’s staring at him curiously, he notices, and so he flashes her a sideways smile. “Me and McJonesy are, like, soul mates,” he adds. “A package deal. If we’re apart from each other for too long, we get all depressed and shit. It’s bad.”

Dodger breaks into an amused smile. Dean leans over, aiming to throw an arm around McJones’s shoulders, but McJones ducks swiftly out of the way. “Speak for yourself,” he mutters, low.

And before Dean can argue any further, Jeff says, “Don’t kill too much of anything, ‘cause we’ll need to breed ‘em later.”

“Yup, gotcha,” McJones replies. PBG starts ambling back towards the forest, and McJones turns away to follow, giving a two-fingered salute. “See you guys in a bit.”

“Seriously, McJones? You’re just gonna leave me like this?” Dean yells after him.

McJones doesn’t look back, doesn’t even slow down. “Have fun mining, Dean.”

This isn’t a fight Dean’s going to win. Sighing, he calls, “Well, at least come visit me in our mine when you get back. I need my spelunking boy.”

“Sure, whatever,” he hears McJones reply noncommittally. Then, fainter, “Where’d you say you found those cows, Austin? I didn’t see _anything_ when I was over there.”

Slowly, grudgingly, Dean turns away, only to find Barry staring at him with raised eyebrows. “Wow, you really want to get away from us, huh?” Barry remarks.

Dean’s cheeks prickle. “No, I—no. Forget it. I’m down to mine with y’all.”

“Cool. Hey, Jeff, where do you want the mine to be?”

“Er.” Jeff frowns at the landscape, pushing a loose strand of hair off his forehead with his thumb. “Just right here is good. It’s near enough to the creek, and we might want it to be accessible from inside the house eventually, so...”

With a slight nod, Barry pulls out his shovel—still just a primitive, wooden one—and jams it into the ground with his foot. Chad follows suit, and Dean moves to do so as well, but then he notices that Dodger hasn’t moved. She’s staring at PBG and McJones’s now-distant figures as they tromp through the grass.

After a few seconds, Dean clears his throat. “Dodger. Hey, Dodger. Yo. Are you having a stroke?”

“What?” Dodger blinks. “Oh, no, sorry. I was just...” She looks over her shoulder again. “...They’re brothers, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” She squints at them for a moment longer before finally tearing her eyes away. “I mean, Jeff told us so, but, like, _wow_. I’d never guess they’re related by looking at them.”

Dean busts out laughing. “Oh shit, what _ever_ would make you say that? Is it the half-a-foot difference between ‘em, maybe?” he snickers.

The whole height thing PBG and McJones have got going on is almost comical. Luke put it best once, a while back: _Y’know, I guess you could call either of them the little brother_ , he’d said at the time, his voice low. _It just depends what you’re judging by_. It was hilarious then, especially coming from someone as kind and earnest as Luke, and it’s hilarious now. Dean rubs his face, still hooting.

“No, but for real, it’s ridiculous how little they look alike. And if you spend more than, like, five minutes around them, you’ll know that they don’t _act_ anything alike either.” He grins. “But they’re both great. They’re my boys, and I love ‘em to death. And you will too, I bet.”

“—Hey, guys,” Barry interrupts. “When you’re done standing around, can you get your asses over here? Me and Chad don’t want to do all the work.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dodger says again, actually looking it as she trots over to the two of them. Dean follows her, significantly less penitent.

“Dude, you’ve dug _maybe_ a foot. Shut up,” he grumbles. But even still, he pulls out his own shovel and drives it into the dirt as well, falling into a steady rhythm of digging alongside the other three.

* * *

The mine goes almost impossibly well. The newbies are fast learners, and it’s not long before they’re digging all by themselves. They both have this confused-yet-chill vibe to them that Dean enjoys, like they’re not really sure what’s going on, but they’re down with it anyway. At one point, Dodger even almost hits Chad with her pickaxe, but all he does is chuckle and say, “Yikes, this workplace isn’t up to safety standards,” which is way funnier to Dean than it probably should be.

When Barry stumbles upon a sizeable vein of coal, he and Dean teach the newbies how to carefully extract the ore and use it to make torches. The twin expressions of childlike wonder on Dodger and Chad’s faces at they stare at the dancing flames makes Dean smile. Then, once the sticks and coal are distributed among them, they each go their own separate ways for a while. Dean finds more coal, a piece or two of iron, and even an opening to a cave, which he ignores; it’s too dangerous to take the newbies exploring this early. He already knows spelunking with them is gonna be a riot, though.

Sometime later, there comes an abrupt _crack_ , followed by a soft curse. After a moment, Dodger’s voice floats through the air: “Um, dudes? I broke my pick.”

Dean pokes his head out of his tunnel to find Dodger standing there by the entrance to hers. She’s frowning down at her pickaxe, and when she sees Dean, she holds up the pieces of it for him to see. It's snapped completely in two, the wood jagged and splintering along the edges. But Dean answers the concern in her eyes with only a casual shake of his head.

“Nah, don’t worry about that,” he says, and he beckons her over to the crafting table they’ve set up by the exit of the mine. “C’mere. I want you to try this one yourself.”

Slowly, Dodger moves over to stand beside him, staring curiously down at the table. And then, Dean proceeds to walk her step-by-step through the process of making a new pickaxe—a stone one this time. It’s pretty slow-going; Dodger’s kinda clumsy with the cobblestone, and she messes up a couple times trying to attach it securely to the wooden handle. But Dean patiently helps her along, even cracking a few jokes to lighten the mood. And soon enough, she’s cradling her very own lumpy, hand-made, upgraded pickaxe.

“Woah,” she says, hefting it in her hands, “this is snazzy!”

Dean winks at her. “Oh, it’s gonna get a hell of a lot cooler than this.”

And the genuine smile she gives him warms him from the inside out. It’s true—he _isn’t_ the best person to be mentoring her, but god knows he wants to try. He wants to be able to look at himself and see that he’s changed since the very beginning of all this crazy shit. He wants to be able to say that he’s grown from a stupid scrub who fucked up anything he touched into a veteran who knows exactly what to do and how to do it—at least some of the time. And most of all, he wants use everything he’s learned to help the newbies make that same transition too.

Or, if that’s a gross overestimation of his own ability, they can just be clueless together.

As Dean watches Dodger swing around her pick—the pick he actually fucking _taught_ her how to make—his chest swells with that familiar feeling he always gets around newbies: this undeniable pride both for her and in himself. Is this how McJones always feels whenever _he_ explains shit? ‘Cause if so, Dean totally gets the whole professor vibe now. And—

Wait. Speaking of McJones.

As he makes his way back into the tunnel he’s been digging, Dean realizes suddenly that McJones never popped in to say hi like he said he would. It’s been a while since they all split up, so there’s probably no way he and PBG are still off stabbing livestock or whatever. Huh. Disappointing.

Logically, Dean knows McJones probably just forgot—he was barely even listening when he agreed to drop by in the first place. But when Dean tries to put the whole thing out of his mind, he finds that for some reason, he can’t. Even as he does his best to lose himself in gathering ore, the thought still sticks in his head like a splinter.

Dean’s suspicion is confirmed a little while later when Barry declares it’s time for a lunch break. Throwing down their tools, they all trudge out of their mine and back into the sunshine, stretching out their tired arms. And right there next to the mine’s entrance, they find Jeff, McJones, and PBG in the midst of filling in one of the walls of their soon-to-be house.

PBG waves cheerfully at the four of them from where he's sitting atop a thick, wooden support beam. “Hey guys! Find anything cool?”

“Nah, just a bunch of coal and crap,” Barry replies. “How’d the hunting go? Got any food for us? We were kinda starving down there.”

“Oh ho _ho_!” PBG snaps his fingers, grinning. “We got _all_ kinds of grub up in here! There’s apples and steak and mutton, and I think there’s even some chicken cooking up in the furnace right now. Help yourself to whatever you want; there’s plenty to go around!”

“Thank god. I could eat an entire live cow right now,” Dodger mumbles, licking her lips. When Dean laughs, she angles her head at him. “What? I’m fucking hungry, dude. Don’t even start.”

They root around in the food chest Jeff directs them to and immediately go to town on the spoils. The apple Dean chomps into tastes like heaven, tart juices flooding his taste buds. He finishes the entire thing in less than a minute, suddenly feeling a whole lot of solidarity with Dodger in her cow-eating levels of hunger, and bends down to grab another.

And then, all at once, McJones is beside him. “Hey man,” he says. “Pass me one of those, would you? I really should have a little something too.”

With a wordless nod, Dean tosses over the apple he’s holding, and McJones catches it fumblingly in one hand. Dean watches him bite through the skin, a contented look crossing him as he eats. But when he notices Dean staring at him, his chewing slows. Their eyes snag a little bit on each other, and then Dean almost says, _Why didn’t you come see me in the mine?_ But suddenly, the words feel completely stale and unfunny on his tongue. So he swallows them away and just stays quiet, gaze lingering as McJones turns away and wanders back towards the wooden skeleton of their house.

Dean doesn’t know why exactly he’s been so caught up in McJones all of a sudden. But he’s pretty sure it has something—no, _everything_ —to do with McJones’s death.

A violent gust of wind blows across the prairie, sweeping Dean’s hair into his face. He blinks, and for a moment, he can almost see it. The dark, wet stain of blood on McJones’s skin. The gurgling noises he made as he gasped for air. The fucking _terror_ in his eyes when he realized what was happening to him. And the way his body looked lying there on the stone floor, pale and sunken and—

—No. _No_.

Dean slams the breaks on his mind, shaking himself back into the real world. Something jitters faintly in his chest, but he squashes it down and shoves it deep into the depths of his consciousness.

What happened back in the mineshaft doesn’t matter anymore. It may as well be ancient history at this point. McJones is alive and well again, so there’s no reason to think about his death anymore. It’s all good now. It’s all good. Dean pushes his hair back out of his eyes, exhaling through pursed lips in an almost-whistle. Then, he plucks another apple from the chest and takes a small bite, letting sound of the _crunch_ ground him.

And besides, maybe this whole giddiness over everyone being alive again isn’t just something that’s happening to him. Truth be told, PBG and Jeff have been hanging all over each other practically since they woke up. Even now, they’re hovering by the furnace, giggling over some private joke while they wait for the chicken meat to cook, their shoulders and hands bumping together every so often.

Honestly, it almost feels cruel when either of them dies, like fate’s laughing at them by making them go through the pain of losing each other. The two of them are like two halves of a heart, never meant to be ripped apart. It’s always been Peebs and Jeff. Jeff and Peebs. Linked together. Caught up in each other’s orbits, just like the moon loves its Earth, and the Earth loves its moon right back.

So maybe it’s not just Dean that’s feeling weird right now. Maybe they’re all feeling their own kind of relief. It’s a comforting thought, and Dean tucks it away in the back of his head just in case he needs it again later.

* * *

The rest of the day passes in a flurry of activity. Dean, Barry, and the newbies spend most of it back in their mine, collecting coal and cobblestone and searching for iron. At one point, during another snack break, Chad makes the amateur mistake of leaving his coal in the furnace unattended, and, predictably, PBG steals it to make himself more torches. As punishment, Dean quite literally _drags_ him down to the mines to help dig, because “if you’re gonna take our shit, goddamn it, you’re at least gonna put it to good use.”

It’s early evening by the time the five of them decide to close up shop for the day. After hours and hours of manual labor, Dean aches all over, but it’s a good ache, a productive ache. Nothing like the listless exhaustion that hovered over him during last world’s emerald hunt. Still, though, he’s definitely ready to just sit down, have a nice, big meal, and kick back for the rest of the night.

When they return to the surface, they find Jeff and McJones putting the finishing touches on the roof of their house. The house itself is squarish and compact and kinda plain, and it could really use some windows, but it’s more than good enough for the first night. In fact, they’re lucky to even have a fully-built house in the first place, and as lead constructor, Jeff understands this better than anyone; as he drops down off the roof and ushers them all inside, he has the purest, brightest look of satisfaction on his face, like he knows he really did good this time.

The wooden front door opens immediately into a small, empty, yet warmly-lit front room. The wall directly opposite the door is cut in half, creating an elegant partition that divides the front room from the dining room beyond. The dining room is both more spacious and more filled with stuff; several chests are tucked neatly against one wall, and beside them are a couple of crafting tables and flickering furnaces. Finally, in the very center of the room, there’s a wide table built low enough that they can all reach it comfortably from the ground. When they find the time to build chairs over the next couple of days, Jeff’ll probably make new, taller legs for the table to stand on. But for now, they’ll just have to sit on the floor anime-style.

“Wow, Jeff, this is amazing,” Chad says in awe, spinning in a slow circle as he looks around.

“Thanks!” Jeff replies.

“I helped too!” McJones pipes up in a funny, high-pitched voice that makes everyone laugh. Then, he adds, “For real, though, I’m glad we got this done. I was _not_ gonna be happy if we had to sleep in a ditch in the ground again like last time.”

Jeff nods, but it’s clear his mind is elsewhere. After a moment, he remarks, “I’m thinking we could put a tapestry or something over there—” he gestures towards the wall where the chests are— “and some flowers in the corners wouldn’t hurt either. I definitely want a second floor, too. Maybe even a balcony.”

He just finished building the basic structure, but he’s already considering how to improve it. That’s their Jeff, all right. If Chad’s impressed now, he’ll be blown away when Jeff actually has the time and the resources to tap into his full creative potential.

After that, they all crowd around the food chests to pick themselves out a nice, filling dinner. Dean tries to score a spot at the table beside McJones, but by the time he finishes deciding which cut of steak looks the tastiest, PBG and Chad have already claimed the spaces on either side of him. And predictably, Jeff’s squeezed himself in next to PBG—Dean would bet a whole block’s worth of diamond that the two of them’ll be eating off of each other’s plates before the night is over. So Dean grabs the vacant spot by Dodger, which is honestly just fine with him.

And then, they dig in. The meat is furnace-cooked to perfection, all tender in just the right places and delicious in a way that practically _demands_ messiness. There’s meat juice dripping down Dodger’s chin, and McJones is licking his fingers, and Dean’s talking with his mouth full and laughing too loudly and yelling across the table, but it’s okay. It’s all okay, because that’s exactly what this night is for: letting loose. Burning as bright as the torches around them. Just living, wild and fierce and unapologetic. There’s something oddly beautiful about it.

“Remember—” PBG’s saying, gesturing indecipherably, “—remember when Jeff trapped Barry in that tree?”

Jeff’s laughing so hard he’s almost crying. “I didn’t know he was there! I didn’t realize that he’d used the planks to climb up! I just thought—I thought someone forgot to bring them inside, so I took them myself!”

“He was stuck up there for a half an hour!” Dean butts in.

“And you were just standing around like _Oh, where’d Barry go, guys? Where could he be?_ What the heck, Jeff? Whatever happened to having your teammates’ backs?”

“I swear to god, I didn’t know!” Jeff insists. “I did it on accident!” Then, his smacks his palm on the table daringly. “And anyway, you’re one to talk, Mister _hit-McJones-in-the-face-with-a-pickaxe!_ ”

“Shut _uuuup_!” PBG rocks forward. “It’s not my fault he can’t catch!”

“Oh, I can’t catch? More like _you_ can’t throw to save your life!” McJones snaps with all the wrath of a man who took a pickaxe handle to the head. Dean snickers to himself, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth. He kinda likes the way McJones gets when he’s pissed—all flashing eyes and bared teeth and, if he’s seriously put out, flushed cheeks. Dean can’t really put his finger on why, but he just eats that shit right up.

Then, as Dean’s still mid-giggle, he feels McJones’s eyes cut over to him. Their gazes meet across the table, and for a split second, something tingles in Dean’s spine. But he shakes it away and leans down to grab another bite of his food.

They all carry on like that for a while longer, half-laughing and half-arguing over all the crazy shit they got themselves into last world. It’s a long-winded conversation just by nature—they backtrack and repeat themselves and get distracted even as much as they try to keep things moving along—and by the time they reach the Nether chronologically in their stories, it’s been over an hour.

“The...Nether?” Dodger cuts in as soon as PBG brings it up. “What’s that?”

PBG shrugs, bouncing up and down on his knees. He’s always so jumpy, fidgeting and squirming around no matter what he’s doing. It’s fucking adorable. “Dunno,” he says. “It’s like an alternate dimension, I guess. I don’t know how to explain it. You can only get there through a portal.”

“Wait, an actual portal? For real? That’s frickin’ awesome!” Chad exclaims, his face lighting up.

“Not really,” McJones tells him. “The Nether’s hell. Like, literally. There’s lava and demons everywhere.”

“Still sounds cool.”

McJones’s eyes flick up to the ceiling. “Oh, you’ll reconsider.”

After a moment, PBG continues. He glosses over their previous newbie’s death, painting it as a tragic lapse of judgment rather than a complete emotional breakdown, and quickly transitions to focus on the more positive aspects instead. Like how they were able to locate a fortress and a blaze spawner in less than two hours. It was actually one of their better Nethers overall. The Nether’s always been really rough for them; there’s so much shit going on, and all it takes is one wrong move to ruin everything. In the beginning, when they were still grossly inexperienced, it wasn’t uncommon for their descents into the Nether to end in complete and utter decimation, with not a single soul left to carry on the torch of that particular world. And even nowadays, they still average around two deaths every time they venture through the purple haze of the portal, so it was lucky for them to come away only losing a single person.

Of course, their good fortune was fucking wasted.

Dean has been quietly dreading this part of the story, a sick sort of feeling growing deep in his stomach the closer they get to it. Nobody’s mentioned what happened in the mines since McJones’s funeral, and he’d really rather it stays that way. But he just swallows around an especially-large bite of mutton and tries to soothe the prickle beneath his skin.

PBG’s still talking, having apparently been unofficially designated the leader of tonight’s dinner. “...And fortunately, the villagers were willing to sell us bookshelves for three emeralds each,” he’s saying. The newbies nod along with his words. “So we had to go find, like, a crapton of emeralds. We ended up splitting into to two groups to go searching for them, ‘cause that seemed like the safest bet. And I guess it was going good for a while, but—but then, like—frickin’—” PBG’s eyes travel over to McJones, “—uh, well, one of our groups...came back with one less person.”

The newbies just look confused, but the rest of them pick up on the unspoken meaning immediately. Barry chokes a little, halfway through a gulp of water. “Oh god, I almost forgot about that,” he splutters. “Jesus, I still can’t believe McJones died mining for _emerald_. What the hell was that?”

“Yeah, Stewart, what even happened?” PBG asks, leaning forward on his elbows. “I mean, Dean told us, kinda, but I wanna hear it from you.”

McJones sucks in a long breath and lets it out with a _whoosh_. “Well, it’s not a very interesting story, to be honest. Dean found one of those abandoned mineshafts, and we decided to explore it. But I guess we weren’t paying very good attention, because we basically walked straight into a whole nest of those cave spiders, and I got bit trying to fight them off. And neither of us had any of that milk you got, Jeff, so I just died. That’s it.”

“But doesn’t spider poison just make you, like, really nauseous and tired? I’ve been bitten a few times, and I’ve never died from the poison itself, I don’t think. Usually it’s the actual spiders that nail you in the end,” Barry points out with a slight frown.

“I know. That’s what was so weird about the whole situation. There must’ve been something up with the spiders Dean and I found. They didn’t look any different from normal, but the venom was _awful_.” McJones shakes his head. “I mean, for starters, I thought I would have at least an hour after I got bit, but I was dead within maybe ten or twenty minutes.”

“Oh snap. Was it really that bad?” Jeff breathes, incredulous.

“Yup. And, you know, even thinking back on it, I _still_ can’t figure out what exactly the spider’s venom was doing to me.” McJones purses his lips, his eyes drifting to the side in thought. “I mean, I know there was probably some kind of anticoagulant in the venom, because the bite—” and here, he holds up his arm, tapping it right where the puncture wounds were, “—wasn’t clotting at all. I just kept bleeding at a steady rate the whole time. And the toxins were definitely causing muscle weakness too. Like, I was having trouble standing, talking, things like that. And I was getting dizzy as well.” He leans back, bracing his hands behind him and looking almost casual. “But the worst part was when I started going into the early stages of respiratory failure.”

“ _Respiratory failure_?!” PBG blurts. “You mean the poison was bad enough to actually make your lungs stop working?”

“Something like that,” McJones says with a small nod. “I’m not too familiar with that stuff. But what I think was happening was, the poison was starting to cause paralysis in my lungs, which meant that I couldn’t really take in enough oxygen no matter how deeply I breathed in. It was...”

He trails off, and his chin lowers slightly.

“...Well, to be honest, it really freaked me out. I didn’t realize quite how bad of shape I was in until I started having trouble getting air.”

 _Dean. I—I can’t_ breathe _._

Shallow gasps. Eyes rent wide. Desperate fingers scrabbling at his arms.

A knot twists in the center of Dean’s chest. He takes another bite of his food and stares hard down at the tabletop, feeling his stomach sink deeper and deeper down in his abdomen. And all the while, McJones keeps barreling on:

“I was worried that I was actually going to suffocate to death. And that’s the worst way to go, y’know, just sitting there and waiting for the inevitable as your oxygen runs out. But I ended up having some sort of brain hemorrhage or something that killed me before it got to that point, luckily.”

The fact that the word _luckily_ can be logically inserted into that sentence is yet another indication that they truly live bizarre lives.

McJones clears his throat into the back of his hand. The room is too quiet without him talking; everyone else is sitting in shocked, disconcerted silence. Finally, by way of conclusion, he says, “So that’s what happened.”

Still, nobody speaks up. They all seem to be at a loss for words. After a second, McJones casts a glance at the newbies. “I guess you guys ought to take this as a warning,” he adds. “No matter what, don’t even go _near_ cave spiders. It’s way too dangerous, and there’s really no need to anyway.”

He needn’t have bothered saying anything at all. Dodger and Chad both look absolutely horrified, and rightfully so. This whole conversation is a prime example of why McJones doesn’t do the Talk. He’s probably better at putting things into words, but when it comes to sparing people’s feelings, he, well, kinda doesn’t. He’s too blunt. He never tiptoes around the truth or sugarcoats anything, even when he really should. His graphic descriptions of his death have probably ensured that the newbies are going to be terrified of spiders for as long as they live.

“Holy shit. That sounds awful,” Barry says at last, shaking his head. “Sorry that happened to you, man.”

“Yeah, it was...not great,” McJones agrees. For a moment, he picks at the remnants of the steak on his plate. Then, the corner of his mouth quirks. “...But it’s my own fault, really.”

“How so?”

But instead of answering Barry directly, McJones looks to Chad and Dodger again.

“Here’s another warning for you,” he tells them. “Never go anywhere alone with Dean and expect him to save you if you get in trouble. ‘Cause it’s not going to happen. _You_ ’ll have to save _him_ , sure, but if your plan for emergencies is _Dean_ —” his smile grows, showing a flash of teeth, “—well, frankly, you’re screwed.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before there’s laughter. Loud _,_ uncontrollable laughter from everyone, reverberating around the room. Even the newbies are giggling, riding the high of an inside joke they don’t fully understand but have picked up enough to piece together. But Dean—

Dean feels like he’s been slapped.

He’s stunned, shaken to the core. Shame scorches across his face so hot and thick he can’t see. His muscles are as stiff as stone, and he’s trembling a little bit, his hands balled into fists in his lap. And inside, down in the deepest, darkest parts of his soul, he’s kicking himself.  

Because he’s an idiot.

He’s such a fucking idiot for not seeing what was really going on here.

How could he have forgotten that what happened down in that mineshaft was his fault? How could he have forgotten that his own carelessness got McJones killed? And how could he have ever, even for a single goddamn second, forgotten that McJones has every right to be _furious_ about that?

It must’ve been the relief of hitting the reset button and starting over in a new world. That’s what it was. It lulled Dean into a false sense of security. And what’s more, McJones didn’t do a thing to challenge that feeling of comfort. Not once today did he ever give off the impression that he was mad at Dean. Hell, he didn’t even make mention of his death until just now. Everything was good.

At least, that’s how it appeared.

But the more Dean thinks about it, sitting there and feeling horror bubble up in his gut like bile, the more it hits him that that’s not true. At all. Because as much as McJones _seemed_ like he wasn’t upset, his actions over the course of the day clearly showed otherwise:

He made polite conversation with Dean after Dean woke up this morning, but as soon as there was someone else to talk to, he quickly extricated himself from the situation and didn’t look back.

He was all too happy to get away from Dean and go hunting with PBG, and Dean’s efforts to tag along only irritated him.

He didn’t bother to drop into the mine to say hi to Dean after he got back, and when Dean and the others came up to grab food, he barely even acknowledged Dean’s presence.

And now— _and now_ —he’s sitting there on the other side of the table, arms crossed, chin lifted, and looking as self-satisfied as Dean’s ever seen him as everyone loses it over his little wisecrack.

It’s so, so clear now: He blames Dean for everything. The evidence was always there. Dean just didn’t see it until it was far too late.

_Never go anywhere alone with Dean._

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck everything. Dean’s going to be sick. In an instant, all the bad feelings—all the guilt and grief he thought he left behind in the previous world—come crashing back down onto his shoulders, nearly cracking him in two. He hates himself so much. The milk, the _milk_. Why couldn’t he just remember to bring the _milk_?

He’s so fucking stupid.

“Hey, y’know, _Dean_ is only one letter away from _dead!”_   Barry exclaims, grinning wildly. In response, PBG starts humming the _X-Files_ theme, eliciting another round of chuckles. But the joke has already started to run dry; they can only pick on each other so much at one time before it stops being funny.

So they move on to Jeff’s death. Jeff explains how he didn’t see the skeleton until it had already shot him, and PBG grins and makes a joke of it and pretends like he wasn’t crying his eyes out after it happened. Then, PBG spends a few minutes discussing their struggles trying to find the stronghold—a conversation to which Dean doesn’t contribute much at all. But he’s forced into the spotlight when they reach the point of his silverfish attack.

“Dean?” PBG says, eyebrows raised. “You wanna tell ‘em what happened next?”

Dean doesn’t, actually. He’s still reeling from the epiphany that McJones pretty much hates him, and he’s aching to be left be with all the regret and humiliation that’s rolling around within him. But it would look weird if he didn’t talk about his own death, so he rubs his eyes, slouches forward, and begins:

“Okay, so, the layout of the stronghold was confusing as hell, and we kept getting super lost and wasting all this time. We ended up deciding to just mine through the walls and hopefully find the portal room eventually, because fuck trying to do it the long way, right? But then we dug into a nest of silverfish, and...”

He falls silent. Everyone’s watching him, listening attentively to his story. Everyone except for McJones, who’s leaning up against PBG to whisper something in his ear. And then the two of them are giggling, McJones poorly stifling the noise into the back of his hand. He doesn’t look over at Dean a single time, doesn’t even bother to hear how his own goddamn teammate died. Dean’s brow furrows.

“I just—” he starts again, but his voice is way too rough, and he coughs. “The silverfish swarmed me and killed me. It sucked mega balls. Yeah.”

And that’s all he cares to say about the whole thing. If anyone thinks it strange that he’s not carrying on and on about it like he usually does, they don’t mention it.

PBG tells the rest of the story all by himself, explaining that he and Barry found the portal room just minutes after Dean died. They delivered Dean’s eulogy over the activated End portal and dropped his helmet through in tribute, he mentions offhandedly, which is actually really nice. The thought of it works a small smile out of Dean, and he offers a nod of appreciation.

They didn’t win, as it turns out. This doesn’t come as a particularly big surprise, though; it’s pretty hard to beat the dragon with just two people. Maybe if Dean had been there, they could’ve done it, but he wasn’t, so they didn’t. Barry and PBG fought valiantly, but a well-timed attack from the dragon took out both of them in one fell swoop, PBG recounts. He clung to life just long enough to see Barry waste away before he himself perished too, the dragon’s triumphant roar echoing distantly in his ears.

“Which means _I_ was the sole survivor,” PBG concludes smugly, sticking his nose in the air.

“For twenty seconds,” Barry points out, and PBG glares at him.

“So? Still counts, kinda! And I mean, it’s not like _you’ve_ ever been an actual sole survivor, _Bar-ree_.”

Barry huffs at that, planting his chin in the palm of his hand. Despite being one of their most calm, collected, and capable, he’s always had particularly terrible luck with deaths. He’s only managed to be the last man standing a grand total of once, and even then, he lost the title barely a minute after gaining it by unceremoniously charging the giant and getting immediately bodied, slamming the door shut on that particular world forever.

The truth is, Barry gets lost sometimes. He’s the classic strong, silent type, generally choosing to keep his mouth shut and his ears open. And in a group full of people who do the opposite, he really struggles to keep up. It’s okay if there’s just a few of them, but when they’ve got a full house, he tends to get overlooked amidst all those bright colors and loud voices.

And every so often—not always, but enough that it matters—they miss his cries for help until its already too late. Until he’s already gone.

Dean tries not to think about that too much, because it makes him feel really, really shitty. Barry’s such a cool guy, and he always has their backs no matter what, but they can’t even return the favor? What kind of terrible friends does that make them? But Barry’s never expressed even a little bit of resentment towards them. He just seems to accept it as his place in the world—the quiet badass who chills out in the background, taking care of business all by himself.

And that’s it. The end of the tale of the previous world. They’ve covered everything they need to cover. But nobody’s quite ready to leave the table yet, so they stay where they are, chattering away about other things for a little while longer. Dean spends the time describing the plot of this one anime to Dodger, which helps him kinda forget about the whole McJones thing. He’s pretty sure she has no idea what the hell he’s talking about, but she’s nodding and smiling anyway, and that’s more than he’d get from anyone else.

At one point, he glances across the table to see PBG trying to sneakily grab a bite off of Jeff’s plate. Except PBG’s notoriously unsubtle, and it takes Jeff approximately three-tenths of a second to notice what’s going on.

“Wow, dude, you’re stealing my food?” he says with an entertained half-smile.

“I’m still hungry, Jeff.” PBG’s hand snakes out again. “Gimme your chicken.”

Jeff gives a sigh of feigned exasperation. “ _Fine._ I _guess_ you can have it.”

But he doesn’t hesitate before pushing his plate over, and PBG doesn’t either before digging into the remains of Jeff’s food. Jeff watches him with a touch of affection in his eyes, the same way you might look at a feisty kitten.

Well, Dean sure won that bet. Too bad he didn’t actually make it with anyone. But god, the two of them are so fucking married. A small, wry smile tugs at his mouth before he faces Dodger again and launches back into his story.

* * *

“Holy shit,” Dodger whispers from where she and Chad are huddled around the door.

They’ve migrated into the other room by now, and the regulars are all scattered around aimlessly, full-bellied and content—Barry, McJones, and Jeff sprawled out near the corner, and Dean and PBG leaning up against the wall. But the newbies, on the other hand, are glued to the small, square peepholes cut into the front door. As soon as they heard the zombies’ gurgling from outside, they planted themselves there and haven’t moved away since, frozen in a mixture of curiosity and terror.

There comes a particularly close growl, and both of them flinch. “Are…” Chad swallows, “…are we _safe_ in here?”

“Oh, yeah, we’re totally fine. They can’t get in. Don’t even worry about it,” PBG assures him, waving a hand.

Dodger jerks back suddenly. “Oh my god, I think one just looked at me.” She gives a short, startled laugh. “Holy shit," she repeats and slowly presses her face back up to the peephole.

“The zombies are no big deal; it’s the creepers you really gotta watch out for,” McJones says. He’s seated on the floor, his legs crossed almost daintily at the ankles.

“Those are the explode-y boys, right? Jeff told us about them. Jesus Christ.”

There’s a draft coming through the peepholes, and every so often, the wind is forceful enough to ghost across Dean’s face. The air is cool and smells strongly of the outdoors, and it gives him a restless tingle in his bones. Slowly, an idea begins to take shape in his head.

“Hey, y’all,” he starts. “You know what would actually be fun? If we went outside right now and just, like, fucking _frolicked_ in all that tall grass.”

His suggestion is met with a rousing bout of blank stares.

After a long moment, PBG mumbles, “Dean, buddy, I think your definition of fun is a little, uh, _off_.”

“C’mon, it would be super awesome. Think about it: all of us together, dancing under the moon and shit.” He holds out his hands. “Remember the last world? Remember how rainy and awful it was all the time? Don’t you want to enjoy the nice fucking weather for once? Don’t be a scrub.”

Truthfully, Dean’s also thinking about a few other things that happen beneath the alluring glow of the moonlight. Things like heavy drinking and blood oaths and orgies. He’d really be down for any of that. Or all of it at the same time. He’s not holding his breath, but that would be pretty hot.

But it doesn’t even matter what he’s thinking, because then McJones shoots him a seething look from across the room. “ _No_ , we’re not going outside,” he says. “Are you out of your mind? We don’t have any gear or good weapons. Do you _want_ us all to die?”

His tone is scornful, like Dean’s nothing more than a small, whiny child who needs a good telling-off. And just like before, a bad, bad feeling rears its head in the depths of Dean’s chest cavity. Except this time, it’s mixed with a tinge of indignation.

Because yeah, okay, McJones is pissed about what happened. And he’s well-justified in being so; Dean completely understands where he’s coming from. But it’s just—why the hell does he have to do this in front of literally everyone? This whole situation is contained solely between him and Dean. There’s no reason for anyone else to get involved. McJones can keep up the strained, forced politeness he’s had towards Dean all day, and nobody else has to know that they’re not on good terms.

But nope. Good ol’ McJones has to make it a fucking public spectacle. He’s not satisfied just being angry at Dean; no, no, he just _has_ to mock Dean in front of an audience of all their friends too. What a low blow. The indignation swirling around Dean’s ribs boils up, growing hotter and hotter until it’s become full-fledged outrage.

And before he can think twice, he jerks his head over towards McJones and snaps, “Who died and made _you_ king?”

This retort only earns him a mild raise of the eyebrows. “No one, Dean. This is a democracy.”

“Yeah? Sure doesn’t seem like it.”

“Well, alright.” McJones blows out a breath, and Dean thinks that’s going to be the end of it. But then, suddenly, McJones hops to his feet and steps into the center of the room, spinning to face the rest of them. “Then we’ll take a vote if that’ll make you feel better. All in favor of going out and _frolicking_ with Dean?”

Exactly zero hands go up. The silence is deafening.

“God. Y’all have no idea how to have a good time,” Dean mutters, his cheeks blazing.

Dodger hunches her shoulders, looking shaken. “Sorry, but, I mean—that’s a _lot_ of shit out there. I—I’m not okay with that.”

McJones gives Dean a pointed look. “And there you go, Dean. The people have spoken.” After a brief pause, he continues nonchalantly, “But, as this is a _limited_ government, your rights as an individual are protected, and you’re more than welcome to go out by yourself anyway. Of course, we won’t be very happy about having to bury your corpse in ten minutes after you inevitably get blown up by a creeper, but hey, it’s your funeral.”

A smile flits across his face. A couple of people chuckle under their breath. _Asshole_ , Dean almost says, but he manages to bite his tongue at the last second. Instead, he grumbles, “Whatever,” and tucks himself into the corner, glaring down at the floor. His face burns hot around his eyes with fury and embarrassment. Goddamn it.

After a few minutes more, the newbies finally drag themselves away from the door and rejoin the others on the opposite side of the room. PBG heads over as well, but Dean lingers in the corner, half-listening to them talk but mostly just thinking about how much of a dick McJones is. He likes seeing McJones all angry, sure, but not when said anger is directed at him. And _especially_ not when it’s this horrible, passive-aggressive bullshit. McJones is such a fucking piece of shit when he’s mad. And with every passing second, Dean gets exponentially more worked up about it until he can barely stand to be in the same room as McJones anymore.

So he turns and stalks back towards the dining room. As he passes by the others, he notices that they’ve somehow gotten their hands on a deck of playing cards. God knows where that came from. Dean doesn’t really care, though.

“Hey, Dean, you wanna play?” Jeff calls out to him. When he glances over, PBG waves the deck invitingly, accidentally sending the jack of spades flying.

“No.”

“Aw, why not?”

“Dude, I’m way too tired. I need some fucking peace and quiet for a bit.”

It’s not exactly a lie. All Dean wants to do is retreat into the other room by himself and stew in his own pissiness for a while. So before anyone else can try to entice him over, he slips away into the dining room. For a moment, he stands there, relishing in the easiness of finally being fucking _alone_. Then, he lowers himself down at the head of the table, sinking forward and burying his head in his arms.

He’s well aware he’s acting like a bitch baby, but he can’t bring himself to care. It’s not like he’s never gotten into it with McJones before. Far from it; their personalities tend to clash in the worst way, and they’re both stubborn as hell, so things end up escalating way more than they should. They’ve fought probably a hundred times over by now. It’s just that it’s usually McJones getting all bent out of shape over some dumb shit Dean does, and Dean can basically just blow it off until he comes around again. But this time, it’s—

It’s different.

Eventually, Dean hears Jeff pipe up from back in the main room: “Oh, hey, we should play _strip_ poker.”

Everyone titters at that, and then PBG exclaims, “Yeah, let’s do it!”

“Wait, you actually wanna?”

“Well—I dunno, I just—don’t look at me like that, Jeff!” PBG’s voice rises. “It just sounds fun!”

Barry snorts. “You mean you want an excuse to get naked, is what I’m hearing.”

“No! I’m not even that bad at poker! I’d be the one still wearing clothes!”

“You _are_ that bad, actually,” McJones interjects. “But it doesn’t matter, because we’re not playing strip poker. How about we all just stay dressed for once?”

“Oh c’mon, don’t be such a dad! It’s the very first night! I wanna, like, have fun!” PBG whines.

“First of all, Austin, don’t call me _dad_. I’m your brother; that’s weird.” Quiet giggling, probably from PBG himself. “And second of all, the fact that it’s the first night is exactly why we have to be tasteful. I’m all for having fun, but Dodger and Chad just got here, and you’re already talking about stripping. That’s...a little much.”

“Yeah, you have a point. They’ll just be intimidated by how hot we are,” Barry chimes in.

“...Well, I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

Just by his tone, Dean can picture the exact look on McJones’s face: one eyebrow quirked up, the left side of his mouth tugging into a poorly-concealed smirk. After a moment, he adds, “But, I mean, you can’t just take off your clothes right away, no questions asked.” His voice lowers, going slippery-smooth like butter. “You gotta make ‘em _work_ for it first.”

Immediately, the others burst into a chorus of loud, childish _oohs_ , their voices swelling and blending together into one.

“Well damn, McJones, you sure know your stuff. I didn’t know you were a stripper on the side,” Barry says, and now McJones out and out laughs, wheezing with it in that way of his. He’s clearly in a good mood; he wouldn’t be making risqué jokes if he wasn’t. And somehow, that ticks Dean off even more. Because how dare McJones act completely lukewarm with him and then turn around and be all smiles with the others? The pettiest, bitterest part of Dean would much prefer McJones to be mad at _everyone_ , not just him.

“Yeah, he’s really making Mom and Dad proud,” PBG needles, feigning sweetness. “You’re the favorite child, right, Stew?”

“Oh, shut up, Austin.” McJones gives a muffled sigh, although there’s still a trace of laughter behind it. “ _Any_ way, are we gonna play or what? Somebody deal.”

Things get quieter after that. The only noises are really the rustles of playing cards and the mutters of _call_ or _fold_. There comes the occasional shout— _Dodger with the full house, holy shit!_ —but mostly, it’s just a hush of concentration.

The near-silence stretches on for a while, long enough for Dean to start getting bored and antsy. He’s had some time to cool off, and now that he’s thinking on it with a more level head, poker with the boys and girl sounds like a fucking awesome time. He’s pissed at himself for not taking Jeff up on that offer to join, and by now, he’s starting to realize that wallowing all by yourself kinda shits. But sheer pride stops him from slinking back after he threw that big hissy fit and stormed out. So he just stays where he is, seething and resentful for a lot of different reasons.

Eventually, conversation starts to pick back up in the other room, signaling the end of the game. Dean sits up and stretches, blinking wearily in the dim light. He’s been in the dining room for a long longer than he realized, although he’s not sure exactly what time it is, and the full weight of all the physical work he’s done today is really starting to sink into his bones and muscles. Time to call it a day, probably.

As Dean stands up, shaking out the fuzziness in his legs, PBG comes storming into the dining room with a huff.

“Dude, who won?” Dean asks, lifting his chin in greeting.

PBG’s lower lip pooches out into a pout. “ _Jeff_ did, but only ‘cause he probably cheated.” He turns to yell over his shoulder. “You’re a frickin’ cheater, Jeff!”

“Nah, you’re just mad ‘cause you suck,” Jeff calls back, and god, Dean can _hear_ the smugness oozing from him.

“No I don’t! I’m—I’m usually, like, a poker _master_! I’m just having an off day, okay?” PBG insists. When all that comes from the other room is laughter, he balls his hands into fists. “Oh, what the heck ever! I’m going to bed! You guys are a bunch of dicks! _Sheesh_.”

Grumbling to himself, he marches past Dean over to one of the chests against the wall. He throws it open, digs around inside until he produces one of the blankets Jeff made earlier, and retreats into the corner with it wrapped around his shoulders. He looks kinda ridiculous curled up like that; he’s just so tall and thin, like a sock monkey with too much limb.

After a moment, Jeff’s voice rings out again: “Well, ‘night, Austin!”

“G’night...” PBG mutters in reply, still petulant, just loud enough for the others to hear him. His cheek is pressed into the wooden wall beside him, and his knees are drawn up to his chin. He’s such a pissbaby. Dean stifles a snicker. Then, he too trots over to the chest to grab another one of those blankets and hunker down for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens!
> 
> I apologize for the delay on this one; this is much more _very very early Saturday morning_ than _Friday afternoon_. Sorry about that, but it shouldn’t happen again!
> 
> I actually based the symptoms of McJones’s spider bite on those of the bite of the inland taipan snake, which is labeled by Wikipedia as “extremely dangerous” for its quick-acting and usually fatal venom. If left untreated, it genuinely can kill someone in thirty to forty-five minutes, and apparently, “it is estimated that one bite possesses enough lethality to kill at least 100 fully grown men.” (And quite unsurprisingly, it’s native to Australia. What’s up with all the nightmarish fauna there?)
> 
> See you Friday!


	4. Part Four

###### Part Four

The next day is more of the same—just a lot of collecting basic resources and setting up the groundwork for their eventual objectives. It doesn’t take long for Dean to realize that McJones has already gotten tired of publicly insulting him and instead has apparently decided to just start avoiding the hell out of him. He weasels his way out of joining Dean’s mining group for the second time, alternatively electing to spend the better part of the morning helping Jeff kick-start a farm. The only time Dean sees him is when he happens to be conveniently leaving a room as soon as Dean enters it.

The whole avoidance thing is actually _worse_ than the insulting, somehow. Before, McJones was still willing to interact with him if nothing else, even if all those interactions were wholly negative. But now, it feels like he’s decided that Dean’s too much of a liability to spend more than a single minute around. It’s so fucked up. But whatever.

Early, after getting the newbies decked out with brand-new stone swords, Dean and PBG take them into a cave system close by the house to teach them how to spelunk. Chad turns out to be pretty good at slaying zombies, while Dodger is, to put it nicely, significantly less so. But once they get over their initial fears, they’re both at least able to hold their own.

Following that resounding success, the four of them collect ore for a while, and then PBG nearly drowns them all by digging into a natural underground reservoir and flooding half the cave. Dean has a goddamned cardiac event trying to plug the leak, and he screams himself hoarse the entire time. Once the disaster has been successfully averted, PBG stands there, nonplussed and looking like a drowned rat. “Hey, y’know,” he says, his voice spun through with dazed laughter, “maybe we’re not the best people to be guiding the newbies.”

“You—you almost _killed us_ , PBG!” Dean shrieks in response, wiping his eyes with the hem of his shirt.

“Yeah, well. It was only, like, fifty percent my fault. Forty-five.” PBG hunches his shoulders.

“My _heart_. I would’ve cried if we all just died there. That would’ve been so fucking stupid.”

They all reconvene in the house around noon for a brief lunch. It’s more of a working lunch than an actual, sit-down thing like they had last night, but that’s usually how it goes with them; there’s always more work to be done, so meals end up just being bites of meat and bread snagged while waiting for iron to smelt or something. Dean himself is busy munching on a hunk of chicken as he breaks planks into sticks to use for more torches.

“Uh, hey, by the way,” Chad speaks up from beside a crafting table. “I have some seeds that I got outside. Are these useful at all?” He holds the seeds out in his cupped hands for anyone to examine. Jeff’s eyes brighten when he sees them.

“Oh, yeah, that’s great, actually! Can you go plant them in our farm?” he says. “Just pick any of the empty plots, and put them a couple inches apart and maybe a centimeter or two deep. It doesn’t have to be too exact.”

“Sure.”

Chad turns and heads out of the house, letting the door bang shut behind him. But just a moment later, there’s an abrupt yell, and he comes bolting back in like he’s being chased by a wild bull.

“There’s—” He’s suddenly all out of breath, and he stands there stiffly in the middle of the room, his eyes wide. “—Holy frickin’ crap, there’s a guy outside.”

Jeff looks at him sharply. “Wait, what?”

“A _guy_ ,” Chad repeats, pointing frantically over his shoulder. “And he’s _flying_. Like, ten feet off the ground, just floating. I don’t know how, but I swear to god I saw him there.”

PBG’s head pops up from where he’s hunched over the table. “Hey, hey, wait a sec. What’d you say this guy looks like?”

“I—I dunno. I couldn’t see his face very well. I think maybe he had glasses, but I couldn’t—”

“Was he wearing a wizard hat? Kinda tan and beat-up looking?”

“…I think so, yeah. But—”

“Blue cloak? Glowing yellow eyes? Shrouded in mystery?”

“Do you—”

And PBG fucking _launches_ up from the table. “Todd!” he shouts. “It’s Todd! You guys, get the hell out here!”

“Who, what, where? What’s going on?” McJones calls, poking his head out of the small back bedroom he’s been building.

“Todd’s back! Let’s go, let’s go!”

“Woah, _Todd’s_ here?” Barry asks. “Where?”

PBG throws up his hands. “Ugh, just— _come_ _on_ , would you?”

So everyone drops their stuff and follows PBG as he gleefully bounds out the front door. And sure enough, right there, hovering in the air and set against the cloudless, blue sky, is Todd. Dodger sucks in an audible gasp when she sees him, and she turns to shoot Dean a startled look. It’s a justified reaction; Todd’s kind of an imposing figure, especially when you see him for the first time. His cloak is billowing majestically around him in the breeze, and his hat is tilted at just the right angle to hide his face, like something out of an old Western. Plus, there’s the fact that light just never touches him. Somehow, no matter how directly the sun’s beating down, its rays always seem to bend and fall away from him, leaving him in a permanent shadow. It’s honestly really cool. Anime as fuck.

The seven of them crowd together below Todd, gazing up at him like an expectant brood of ducklings. After a moment, he clasps his hands together at his waist and clears his throat regally.

“ **Good afternoon. It’s been a little while, hasn’t it?** ” he says. His voice has a strange, echoing quality to it, like it’s coming from everywhere at once. “ **Some old and new faces here, I see. That’s wonderful. I hope you all are getting on well thus far.** ”

Then, he swivels to face Chad and Dodger. They eye him warily as he dips his head in polite greeting. “ **I’m called Todd** ,” he tells them. “ **You can think of me as the wizard who always has one eye on everything that’s going on with you all.** **But don’t worry, I’m not here to sabotage you. I’m not really here to help you either, though. Really, I try to interfere with your journey as little as possible.** ” He raises a finger. “ **But I’ve come today because I—** ”

“Hey, Todd, where were you last night?”

Todd stops. Slowly, he looks over at Barry.

“ **What?** ”

“We missed you at dinner, man,” Barry remarks. “I think we all would’ve loved to have you there. There was an empty spot at the table and—and a hole in our hearts.”

“ **Ah,** ” says Todd. “ **I see.** ”

He scratches the back of his neck. Everyone’s silent for a long moment. Dodger looks at Dean again, but he just shrugs. Eventually, Todd coughs into his fist.

“… **Right. Well, uh,** ” he begins awkwardly, “ **sorry for bailing on you guys, but something came up. A problem. That I, uh, didn’t expect. And that I had to go deal with right away. You know how it goes.** ”

Barry nods. “Right, right, I get that. You’re pretty busy, I’m sure.”

“ **Yeah. So I couldn’t make it to dinner, unfortunately. But I’m sure it was a great meal, and I’m sorry I missed it.** ”

“Oh, no worries. Life happens. I get it.”

“ **But maybe I’ll be able to come another time.** ”

“That’d be cool. You’re always welcome in any house of ours, so drop by whenever.” Barry’s smile deepens just a tad, and Dean sees his eyebrows lift from behind his sunglasses. Todd rubs his arm, looking down.

“ **Right. I’ll...** ” he hesitates, “ **...I’ll do my best.** ”

They go through this whole song and dance every single time Todd drops by. Barry pretends like he actually expected Todd to arrive for dinner, and Todd pretends like he actually intended to show up, and they both pretend like Todd’s promise to take a rain check actually means anything. Which, spoiler alert, it doesn’t.

It’s kind of disappointing, actually. The thought of Todd, a literal fucking physics-defying _wizard_ , just sitting down at the table with all them and praising Jeff’s cooking and listening to PBG ramble and debating logistics with McJones—god, Dean would die to see that. Too bad Todd plays hard to get all the time.

But even still, Barry keeps the charade going. Dean actually once needled him about it; _a_ _re you after the secrets in Todd’s head_ , he’d said, smirking, _or the secrets in his pants?_ But Barry just laughed, shrugged, and offered a faint, peculiar smile.

He was the very first one to be spirited away by Todd. It happened in a world a while back, one morning not long after they’d woken up. PBG had just died to a creeper the previous evening, and they were all still reeling from it, that numb, hazy sort of shock hanging over each and every one of them like a fog. They’d stumbled outside in a listless mass, ready to throw themselves back into their work in a desperate attempt to stave off the grief. And then, just as they passed through the front door, there was a flash. Out of the corners of their eyes, they saw a dark figure materialize right out of thin air. But before they could turn to look at it full-on, the figure lifted a hand and vanished once more.

And Barry vanished right along with it.

Things quickly went downhill from there. The whole situation was honestly just a fucking disaster. Todd really dropped the ball on that one; his _kidnap first, explain later_ strategy was the absolute worst way he could have gone about introducing himself. They were basically left there to panic for god knows how long, having no clue what the hell had just happened or if they’d ever see Barry again.

When Todd finally did return with Barry, safe and sound like nothing had ever happened—that’s when their terror turned to anger. And so too did they draw their swords and bows and turn on Todd. He tried to diffuse the tension by offering his sympathies over what happened to PBG, but that only made their hearts turn to ice with mistrust. They thought it was _he_ who was trapping them in this endless flow of worlds. That it was _he_ who was orchestrating each and every one of their deaths. They finally had a person to blame for everything they’d been through—or so they’d thought—and they were furious.

But through everything, Barry of all people was the one trying to talk them down. _Just let him speak!_ Barry had cried, standing in front of the rest of them, palms wide open in desperation. Trying in vain to quell their rage. _He’s not our enemy! I swear to god, we can trust him!_

Of course, they eventually came to realize he was right: Todd has even less control over what happens to them than they do. To think they ever believed he was some kind of sadistic puppet master, yanking their strings and playing with their lives, seems laughable now. But in the moment, they were so utterly convinced of it. And in the moment, Barry was the only one who chose to stand by Todd’s side, and his trust has remained unwavering ever since.

Now, Todd begins again with another clear of his throat. “ **Anyway, as I was saying, I’m here to deliver a message. Which means I need someone.** ” He rubs his chin, surveying them from above. “ **Hm, let’s see…** ”

“Ooh, ooh, pick me, Todd! Pick me! I wanna go!” PBG cries, jumping up and down and waving his arms spastically.

An amused smile splits across Todd’s face, bright white teeth visible from behind his high collar. “ **…Jeff.** ”

Then, Todd flicks his fingers artfully and deliberately, and before any of them can even blink, he and Jeff have disappeared, leaving behind only empty air.

“Dang.” PBG’s arms flop back down.

Only a second passes before Dodger spins to face the rest of them. “Um, hello?” she says, the flabbergasted expression on her face mirroring Chad’s.

“Yeah?” McJones replies.

“Is someone gonna tell us what the _fuck_ just happened?”

* * *

Jeff shows back up about a half-hour later, as is the standard when you’re kidnapped by Todd. Also in line with the standard, he’s got one of those leather-bound books that cryptically explains their quest _du jour_ , because Todd can never just tell them outright what the hell they have to do. Maybe that explains why Barry likes him so much: They both have an air of mystique to them.

Everyone gathers around the dining table in curiosity as Jeff cracks open the book. From over Jeff’s shoulder, Dean can see Todd’s elegant yet near-indecipherable scrawl covering the pages and tumbling into the gutter.

“Okay, what do we got going on here?” Jeff mutters mostly to himself, squinting at the spidery writing. Then, after a beat, he begins to read aloud, holding the book close to his face. “‘ _The world is truly a mystical and fascinating place. It seems that the more that I scour the hills and the seas, the more hidden wonders I discover. Some of these wonders are natural, arising as organically as the sun rises each morn, while others appear more man-made, possibly being remnants of ancient civilizations long forgotten. In—’_ ”

Dean groans loudly. “God, get on with it. Who cares about this shit?”

“Hey, I’m just reading what it says!” Jeff hurls back. “And it might be important, you never know.” Before Dean can voice any more complaints, he continues: “‘ _In my exploration of the particular lands in which the seven of you have found yourselves this time, I was fortunate enough to stumble upon one of these artificial creations—a small, underground repository, shrewdly hidden where the earth touches the sky. This dark and dreary chamber, although plagued by the mindless undead, contains several mystical brews that may aid you on your adventure, if you so choose to retrieve them._

_“‘The journey will be long, difficult, and fraught with danger. It will take you so far from familiar lands that when you look back upon your home, it will be no more than a speck of dirt on the ground. You will be surrounded by darkness purer than anything you have ever seen. You will walk the winding path of sorrow. And you will stare into the eyes of the ancient warriors and ask them their secrets._

_“‘If you are successful, you will be rewarded greatly. The forgotten brews will be all yours for the taking. But of course, you may also elect to forgo the expedition entirely. If you find it to be too much of a risk to assume, you are free to dispose of this book and continue on uninterrupted. The choice is all yours, my noble ones. As always, good luck and tread wisely.’_ Signed, _The Wizard Todd._ ”

Jeff sits back, dropping the book onto the table with a _smack_. None of them speak for a few moments, just contemplating the regular avalanche of ambiguously-worded clues that’s just been dropped on their heads. Todd’s really knocked it out the park this time. He’s got to be the fucking world champion of thinking up brain-busters. Goddamn it.

And then, without any warning, McJones slams his hands down and yells, “ _Potions!”_

Everyone jumps about a foot into the air. The others always make fun of Dean for his screaming, but McJones has a fucking pair of lungs on him too, and he can be loud as hell when he wants.

“Potions?” PBG repeats, looking a little pained, probably because McJones just screeched in the exact direction of his left ear.

“That has to be what Todd’s referring to here!” McJones exclaims. “What else could he mean by _mystical brews_?”

“I was hoping for some sweet IPAs, personally,” Dean mutters, but McJones doesn’t dignify him with a response.

“That’s it? Potions? That’s kinda lame.” PBG frowns, pursing his lips. “We’ll eventually be able to make our own anyway, so why bother? Todd usually does cooler stuff than this.”

But McJones shakes his head rapidly. “No, no, think about it! This is our chance to have potions going into the Nether! We usually can’t brew until _after_ we go to Nether at least once, so it would give us a huge leg up!” He’s practically glowing with excitement, this big smile stretched all across his face. It’s actually kind of adorable in a weird way. “This is—this is the best news I’ve heard all day! Todd’s basically handing us the key to survival!”

“But what if the potions are shitty? Like if they’re all just for water breathing or some crap. What then?”

“Well, I mean, like Todd said, there’s a risk. We could go all that way—lose a person or two if we’re unlucky—and have it turn out to be a complete waste of time. Or it could be the difference between us living through the Nether and not.” McJones folds his arms definitively. “I, for one, think it’s completely worth it.”

“Hm. Maybe you’re right. If we’re really careful, and, like, nobody dies or anything...” PBG says, giving a slight shrug.

“Yeah, I’m in,” Barry agrees. “Getting potions of healing or fire resistance or anything along those lines would be huge. We shouldn’t pass something like this up.”

Then, Jeff holds out his hands. “Wait, though. I think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves here. We don’t even know where to find these potions in the first place.”

“Can I see the book again?” Dodger asks. Nodding, Jeff nudges it towards her, and she leans over to skim the page. “‘ _A small, underground repository, shrewdly hidden where the earth touches the sky.’_ Huh. This wizard man sure knows how to beat around the bush.”

“I assume he means the horizon, right?” PBG suggests. “‘Cause, like, that’s where the sky and the ground meet, kinda.”

“But how would we actually, y’know, _get_ there? The horizon isn’t a physical place,” Dean points out.

“...Hm, yeah, I don’t guess so. I dunno, then. What do you think, Stewart?”

“Eh, I got nothing right now, sorry. Give me some time to think on it.”

“Hey, quick question,” Chad interjects a little abruptly. “Are clouds considered part of the sky?”

McJones frowns. “Technically, maybe.” He studies Chad curiously, almost suspiciously. “Why do you ask? Do you know something we don’t?”

“Well, uh, I’m not sure I’d go _that_ far.” Carefully, Chad steps back from the table, a little unsure of himself under the sudden spotlight of everyone else’s eyes on him. “I just...I have an idea, I think. I could be wrong—you guys are more familiar with this stuff than me, obviously—but maybe you should come see for yourself.”

Then, quickly, he turns and patters out of the room. After a moment, the others follow him, exchanging curious glances with each other. They find them standing a few steps beyond the front door, staring into the late morning air.

“Look. Up there,” he murmurs, pointing, and everyone cranes their necks to follow the direction of his finger.

And together, their gazes land on the hazy cluster of mountains in the distance, the tallest of which stretches high enough to brush the misty clouds hanging overhead.

Chad looks back at them. “It’s just a guess, but when I heard that part about the earth touching the sky, I immediately thought of those mountains. Do you think that wizard dude would make you guys climb all the way up there to get your potions?”

“Oh, he _absolutely_ would,” Dean says slowly, shielding his eyes to get a better look at the peaks. “That’s total Todd shit right there. I can’t believe we didn’t think of it too. Oh my god.”

“It’s so tall, dude. Would we even be able to make it all the way to the top?” Dodger breathes, her eyes round.

Jeff rubs his jaw. “Oh shit, and it’s super far away too. It’s gonna take _hours_ just to get to the base. Watch us all die before we make it there.” He gives an incredulous laugh. “Still think it’s worth it, McJones?”

Barry’s the only one who doesn’t seem alarmed by Chad’s revelation. Instead, he’s staring up into the sky, his eyebrows arched and a faint smile on his face. “Well, grab your harnesses, men,” he says. “Looks like we’re going mountaineering!”

* * *

So their plans take a slight left turn: Instead of preparing to go to the Nether, they’re now preparing to climb a two-billion-foot-tall mountain. Despite this, McJones sticks by his original declaration that going on the quest is totally gonna pay off, and after some more squinting into the distance at the hills, he also proclaims that it won’t be as much of an ordeal as it seems.

“The mountain actually shouldn’t be that difficult to climb,” he assures everyone later that same day. “From what I can tell, it looks like it’ll just be like walking up a steep road. I don’t think we’ll need climbing gear or anything. The _real_ issue is gonna be packing enough supplies, because this is definitely at least a three-day journey.”

Which means that gathering food has suddenly jumped to a very high priority. Dean takes advantage of the situation to get out of the goddamn mines for once and go on a hunting expedition with PBG. It takes them the better part of the afternoon—probably because they keep fucking around instead of staying focused—but it’s fun and easy and careless and exactly what Dean needs after gathering coal for two days straight.

McJones offers to take Dean’s place in the mines with Barry and the newbies, because of _course_ he’s suddenly all gung-ho about mining the minute Dean decides to fuck off and do other things. Jeff, meanwhile, spends his time finishing making beds for everyone, thank god. They only had to get through one night without them, but that single night of sleeping on the hardwood floor was more than enough to give Dean cricks in places he didn’t even think you could get cricks.

That night, when they all turn in together, Dean pointedly plunks himself down on the bed that’s the farthest away from McJones’s. He’s hoping that McJones notices and feels, like, super hurt that he’s getting the cold shoulder right back, but he never glances in Dean’s direction once in the entire twenty minutes it takes them to sort out whose bed and blankets and pillows are whose. Disappointing.

McJones continues to make himself irritatingly scare the following morning, disappearing off to god-knows-where almost before Dean can even drag himself out of bed. After a hearty breakfast consisting of an apple and a few slices of bread, Dean manages to evade the mines for a little while longer by volunteering to take Dodger and Chad out to practice fighting creepers. He demonstrates the classic _strike-and-fall-back_ technique a few times, and then lets them try it out on their own, hovering close by just in case he needs to jump in to help. Once again, Chad’s clearly the more adept at swordplay of the two; Dodger’s still a little loose in the wrist, so her blows don’t strike with as much power as they should.

After a bit, Chad heads back to mine with PBG, while Dean and Dodger go into the house to grab more stuff for torches. They find Barry at the table, hunched over what appears to be a partially-assembled shield, his face screwed up in concentration and his sunglasses shoved high on his forehead. He calls out a brief greeting to them without looking up.

It takes the two of them a hot minute to locate the sticks and coal in their many chests. They’re still in the midst of early-world disorganization, so nothing’s put away in an even remotely logical manner; the coal is stowed in what might be the beginnings of an ore chest if not for the fact that it’s also home to a bunch of partially-used wooden tools, while the sticks are buried beneath a lopsided pile of wool. Then, just as Dean starts dividing up the supplies, the front door bangs open, and none other than McJones himself comes trotting in. He stands just inside the threshold of the door, with rolled-up sleeves and that stupid newsboy hat of his angled on his head, and drags the back of his arm across his forehead.

“ _Woo_!” he hoots with a funny little grin. “It’s hot as balls out there! I only started helping Jeff with the farm, like, fifteen minutes ago, and I’m already sweating buckets.” He pulls at the chest of his shirt, flapping it. “I enjoy the heat, personally, but _wow_. Make sure you’re drinking plenty of water.”

Dean eyes him skeptically. He’s actually bothering to hang around in the same room as Dean for more than ten seconds? This is new. Maybe he’s mellowed out.

“So, you’re workin’ the farm now?” Dodger says, perched on top of a crafting table. Her boots have been kicked off, scattered carelessly across the floor.

“Yup. Jeff started it up yesterday, but it needs to be a lot bigger. A stable food source is key here. Hopefully we’ll get animals fairly soon too, but a good wheat farm should hold us over until then.”

McJones crosses over to her, gesturing for her to move aside with a little tilt of his head, and sets to making a shovel. Abruptly, like a flickering flame in his mind, Dean remembers how the two of them nearly cried laughing over the thought of a diamond shovel back in the mineshaft last world. Although it couldn’t have happened much longer than a week or two ago—or something like that; time gets weird when they change worlds—it feels like a distant memory. An artifact of a different time when things were better. When McJones hadn’t yet met his untimely death by spider poison.

“Oh, you guys actually raise the animals?” Dodger’s eyes light up. “That’s fucking awesome! Can I help take care of ‘em?”

“Sure, knock yourself out. I bet Jeff would love an extra set of hands. Personally, I’m a little too weirded out to touch cow udders and stuff. It just feels... _wrong_ , y’know?” He gives her a look that Dean doesn’t see, and she laughs.

Then, out of nowhere, Barry makes this choked noise. “Wait, woah, woah, _woah_ , dude. You have an iron sword _already_?” He throws up his hands. “Damn, talk about keeping up with the McJoneses.”

McJones snickers, running his fingertips over the hilt of the sword sheathed by his hip. “We have iron. Go get yourself some if you’re that upset about it.”

“I know, I just—ugh. We had to make shears and pickaxes first. And now I’m trying to get shields for everyone. Upgrading our swords isn’t high on the list of priorities.”

“Well.” McJones shrugs as if to say, _your loss_. Stepping back, he holds his freshly-made shovel up to inspect the blade. He swings it a few times, taps the handle against the palm of his hand. Dean watches from where he’s crouched by the chest, studying the slight frown of concentration on McJones’s face, the creases it forms in his forehead. Then, McJones starts to turn away, and without thinking, Dean springs to his feet.

“Hey, yo, hold up, McJones. Can you show me how to, uh, make a ladder again?” he says, the words tumbling out a little too quickly.

McJones twists back to look at him, but only fleetingly. And his reply comes out as flat as a sheet of paper: “No, like I said, I’m in the middle of something. Ask someone else.” And then, without another moment of pause, he strides out of the room, letting the front door slam shut behind him in firm punctuation.

Nope, he _definitely_ hasn’t mellowed out. Holy shit.

“Well, fuck you too, then,” Dean spits towards the closed door. He shoves his glasses roughly up the bridge of his nose and stomps back to the chest, a rock lodging itself at the base of his throat.

Barry’s eyes flick over to him. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Uh, yeah—” Dean snorts gruffly, “—where’ve you been for the past three days? McJones is being a gigantic asshole.”

“Right.”

“Aw, what happened to you guys being soul mates?” Dodger pipes up, reclaiming her spot atop the crafting table.

“I wasn’t serious about that,” Dean says kind of irritably, because _is she for real right now?_ “It was a joke.”

“Yeah, _sure_ it was,” Barry mutters.

It comes out halfway under his breath, almost like no one was actually meant to hear. But the words slam into Dean with surprising force, and his shoulders rise as he turns to look at Barry.

“What do you mean by _that_?” he asks slowly.

“Ah, forget it.” Barry silent for a few, long moments, long enough that Dean starts to think he’s actually not going to answer. But then, suddenly, he gives a slight sigh. “It’s just—why do you even bother pretending? We all know you have a thing for McJones.”

Dean’s jaw slams into the floor at Mach ten speed.

“ _What_? Wh—what are you _talking_ about? No I don’t!”

“Sure you do.” Barry scratches his chin.

“You—where’s the fucking evidence?” In an instant, Dean’s beside him, leaning over him, fingers digging into the edge of the table. “Give me _one_ good reason why you would think that.”

“The whole _soul mates_ thing, for starters.”

“Dude, I literally just told you that was a joke! Are you fucking kidding me?” Dean’s eyes have snapped open wide, and his pulse pounds out a stunned, bewildered beat. The only coherent thought in his mind is _what the fuck_ , _what the_ actual _fuck?_

Barry crosses a leg over his opposite knee, _far_ too fucking relaxed than seems fair. “C’mon, Dean,” he says. “Your jokes are usually just references to anime and 80s pop culture or insults to others people’s moms. But when you’re around McJones, suddenly everything you say is about you and him being star-crossed lovers or whatever.”

“No it’s fucking not! That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! You—you’re cherry-picking. I made _one_ little comment—” Dean splutters.

“Also, you’re always calling him your _beautiful boy_. What’s up with that?”

“I call everyone that! It’s a fun nickname for my friends! I—I think I’ve called _you_ that! It doesn’t mean anything, you moron!” Except Dean’s voice ascends about three octaves, which definitely doesn’t help his case.

Barry’s eyebrows are steadily inching up his forehead. “Oh, and you’re always looking at him like you wanna—”

“Shut the fuck up, I don’t look at him like _anything_ ,” Dean growls. Christ, he fucking despises the expression on Barry’s face. The oh-so-casual expression like he knows a thousand things Dean doesn’t. “I—I look at McJones like he’s a scrub and I hate him, ‘cause he’s been acting like a class-A dickbag! Right, Dodge?”

He shoots Dodger a desperate glance, and he genuinely expects her to back him up too. Except all she does is break into a half-smile, swinging her bare feet back in forth in the air.

“Actually, I like McJones! He’s a smart, smart boy. He’s really good at explaining things, and he’s super patient with me even when I keep fucking up,” she says with a laugh. “And, well, if you’re asking me...” she hesitates, pulling at one of the loops of her hair, “...well, I dunno, but I’d say you do kinda get a little bit moony when you’re around him.”

“ _Moony_?!”

Dean’s floored. For a second, his head spins as if he’s been sucker punched. “God, you know what?” he chokes out, jabbing his index finger at them. “Just—go suck it! Seriously, y’all don’t even _know_ —you’re just—you—look, I—I don’t have to listen to this! I’m leaving!”

Barry looks less than fazed. “Sure. See you, man.”

Roiling, Dean whirls towards the door. As throws himself outside into the sticky-warm air, his face burning hotter than the goddamn sun above, he pretends not to hear Dodger’s voice from back behind him:

“Aw, I actually thought he and McJones had something going on. They just seemed sweet together. That’s disappointing.”

And he _especially_ pretends not to hear Barry's reply:

“Nah, I don’t know if I buy it. The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

* * *

Dean doesn’t have a plan for where he’s going when he storms off, he just knows he has to be alone for a while to cool down. His legs end up leading him away into the nearby forest, and he impulsively pulls out his axe, aiming to take his rage out on a poor, helpless tree. But it doesn’t help; with every _thwack_ of his blade against the trunk, his fury only swells even more, frothing and bubbling around inside of him like an overheated pot of water.

He’s so fucking pissed.

Stupid Barry. Stupid Dodger.

And then he feels a little tinge of guilt for thinking that about Dodger. After all, she’s new here. She’s only known them for a few days, so she can’t really be held too much at fault. She’s just misguided, probably.

But still, there’s a tight, steaming vibration in Dean’s muscles. ‘Cause how _dare_ Barry and Dodger just stand around and theorize about him like they can see everything going on in his head? What gives them the fucking right?

 _Thwack_.

The worst part is that it came from _Barry_ of all people. Since when has Barry been the type to try and play matchmaker? And the “evidence” he kept pointing to—Jesus, how idiotic can you get? Sure, Dean sometimes kids around about he and McJones being in love, but it’s just that: _kidding around_. It’s funny because he and McJones are so obviously _not_ soul mates and star-crossed lovers and all that crap. He never said it actually thinking it was true. He wasn’t trying to fucking _vent_ his deep, dark feelings or anything. That would be absolutely pathetic.

 _Thwack_.

Sure he’s been a little overeager to be around McJones lately, but _anyone_ would be if they were in his position. Anyone would be if they watched McJones die two inches from their fucking face. But Dodger wasn’t even around for McJones’s funeral, and _both_ of them were lucky enough to miss his actual, horrific death, so they’ll never understand. Dean should be cut a little slack for being thrilled that McJones isn’t a bloody corpse anymore. It’s just nice to have your friends back from the grave. That’s all.

 _Thwack_.

And sure he’s called McJones _beautiful_ before, but who gives a shit? Is he not allowed to compliment his friends without being accused of having a goddamn anime crush on them? And besides, he’s just pointing out the truth. The truth, which is that McJones isn’t half bad to look at. He has nice eyes and a cute face and a well-proportioned body and—okay, _listen_ —an honestly beautiful smile. And somewhere deep down, Dean desperately wishes that McJones would turn that smile on him again, just once more.

But is that—is _any_ of that—a sign of romantic feelings? No. Absolutely not. And Barry’s gotta be out of his mind for thinking so.

 _Thwack._ The tree goes down with a brain-rattling thud. And Dean doesn’t feel one iota better.

He’s still mad about so many things, and when he finally stamps back to the house to get on with his day, he just finds more and more to add to his laundry list of outrage. He’s mad about Barry and Dodger’s quack psychoanalysis of him. He’s mad about having to go back down into the mines for the billionth time. He’s mad about McJones constantly avoiding him like an absolute prick. He’s mad about his stone sword breaking and having to spend forever and a day crafting an iron one. He’s mad about PBG getting in his way at the furnace. He’s mad about not being able to find anything in their fucking chests.

He’s just _mad_.

He’s mad as he mines coal in the depths of some moist cave crawling with zombies. He’s mad as he stands around waiting for steak to cook. He’s mad as he fucks up the ladder he’s trying to make for the thousandth time. He’s mad as he listens to McJones and Jeff laughing from outside, still working on their farm this late into the evening.

But most of all, he’s mad about the neck-cracking whiplash he has from getting McJones back alive and then immediately losing him again over what happened. And that’s what he’s thinking about when they all turn in. When he curls up in his bed that’s as far from McJones’s as possible. When he turns away from everyone else, yanks his covers over his eyes, and wills sleep to come and erase these past couple of godawful days from existence.

* * *

And then he has a dream.

A dream that sends him snapping awake in the dead of night, sitting bolt-upright in a pool of his own sweat. As is typical of dreams, the details of it evaporate as soon as his eyes fly open. But a few vague images somehow manage to linger in his grasp, and as Dean sits there, his blankets bunched around his waist and his heart beating hard enough to be felt in every corner of his self, they flash in his head like a strobe light:

_McJones._

_McJones’s shoulders, bare. His arms curled around his pale chest._

_Him staring up at Dean with dark, endless eyes Dean could drown in._

_Hands grabbing at jaws, at wrists, at hips._

_Warm, flushed bodies pressing together. Skin on skin on skin._

The pictures are all jumbled up in his mind, stitched together incoherently and smeared like a painting that hadn’t yet finished drying. Dean reaches into the deepest folds of his brain, trying to recall _anything_ else from the dream, but there’s nothing other than pure blackness. A thousand questions without any semblance of an answer. He runs his fingers through his matted hair, breathing out a soft exhale.

Then, gradually, he begins to notice that, beneath the layer of sweat coating his skin, there’s this weird _heat_ pooling in his stomach.

 _Huh,_ he thinks.

But the thing is, it’s the middle of the night. Dean’s still half-asleep. He’s exhausted. He’s confused. He barely even knows where the fuck he is. Some small, well-hidden part of him feels like there might be a broader meaning in this whole thing, but the rest of him just wants to go back to bed and not give it a second thought. And majority rules, so all he does is rub a hand across his face, lie back down, and conk out again as soon as his head touches the pillow.

* * *

The next morning, Dean’s woken by a cacophony of yelling and banging and other such noises that’re unreasonably loud for this time of day. He groans deep in his throat and presses his pillow over his face. His temples throb with an incessant ache that says he hasn’t gotten nearly enough sleep, but a quick look around the room tells him everyone else has gotten up by now, so he knows he really should just bite the bullet and go join them.

Out in the dining room, he finds Barry, Chad, and PBG already toiling away on whatever the hell, squeezed together around a furnace and talking urgently amongst themselves. Only Dodger’s sitting at the table, hunched over on her elbows, her cherry hair loose around her shoulders. She and Dean exchange the kind of grunts that can only be understood by those who wish nothing but a firey, painful death on morning people, and Dean slides down beside her, loosely holding a hunk of bread in one hand.

“ _What?_ No!”

A very Jeff-sounding cry comes from outside, cutting through the sizzling morning air. A moment later, it’s followed by despairing whine of “Are you _serious_? We did all that work yesterday!”

“Wait, what happened?”

And there’s McJones’s voice.

The events of the previous night slam into Dean like an avalanche, and he chokes on his bread.

That dream. _That dream._ He—

He dreamed about himself and McJones. Together. Touching. And neither of them was fully clothed. More than likely not clothed at all.

He’s forgotten even more of the already-hazy dream by now, but those little facts are more than enough to fill in the gaps, and—

—Holy shit.

_Holy shit._

Suddenly, Dean doesn’t feel very tired at all. Just the opposite, in fact—there’s an electric thrum spinning beneath the skin of his chest. Stuffing the rest of his bread into his mouth, he stands sharply, banging his knees into the bottom of the table. His boots thud on the wooden floor as he rushes through the room, almost barreling right into Chad on his way.

But as soon as he bursts through the front door, he falters, coming to a dead stop just outside the doorway. The breeze is particularly rough right now, whipping the tall grass around his legs almost violently. It’s no match for the hot spill of sunlight across the prairie, though, and Dean can already feel sweat starting to bead on the back of his neck. Scattered all around are burnt shreds of flesh and singed bones from the monsters that can’t survive under direct sun. In the distance, a spider turned passive by the light scuttles aimlessly through the grass.

And not twenty feet away, there they are. Jeff and McJones.

They’re standing in place and staring down at their farm, a smallish plot of land where the grass has been tamped down and the dirt tilled up. McJones’s hands are planted firmly on his waist, and just from that posture alone, Dean can tell he’s _not_ happy.

“Dang it!” McJones groans after a moment. “I _knew_ we should’ve fenced it off last night!”

“And that was our only carrot,” Jeff mumbles, his hands cupped over his face.

The thrumming spreads through Dean’s limbs, and he digs his fingers into his palms. What’s even his plan right now? What was he hoping to accomplish by coming out here? He wanted to see McJones, obviously, but how—how will that fucking help? How will that turn the crazy dream he had last night into something normal? He can barely wrap his head around the whole thing as it is.

But before Dean can even _start_ trying to think logically about the situation, Jeff twists to glance over his shoulder. When he sees Dean, he gives a thin, gloomy smile.

“Oh, hey, Dean,” he calls. “We’re just—we didn’t take the time to build fences around our farm last night, and half our crops got trampled by zombies. Including the _one_ carrot plant we had.” He rubs his eyes. “God, this _blows_.”

Dean starts to say something back, but right at that moment, McJones turns around too, all slow and shit, and his eyes fall directly onto Dean.

And _hell_ if Dean doesn’t feel the weight of that stare in every single, solitary inch of his body.

He didn’t know a gaze could hold so much fucking power, and it’s startling. But at the same time, he relishes in it, relishes in the flash of lightning it sends coursing through him. It just feels like it’s been so long since McJones really, _really_ looked at him. Honestly, he’d be perfectly content to let himself burn to death in the path of McJones’s eyes.

Then, McJones lifts his chin slightly by way of greeting, no more than an inch or two. Dean tries to think of some way to respond in kind, but by the time his brain unsticks itself from the _McJones is looking at me_ thought, McJones has already faced Jeff again. “Well,” he’s saying, “I need to go grab something to eat, but then I can help you try to fix this.”

“Alright. Thanks.” Jeff sighs, resigned. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. This one’s on me too.”

McJones starts back towards the house, carefully maneuvering through the sea of grass. And what strikes Dean, still standing there and just gaping at him, is how inexplicably _good_ he looks. At this angle, he’s perfectly backlit by the sun, giving him a golden aura that glints off of his hair and skin. His eyes, shadowed and thoughtful, are lowered to the ground, and his cheeks are flushed slightly in the heat. He's nothing short of ethereal as he walks, growing closer and ever closer. It’s amazing.

McJones comes to a halt a few steps in front of Dean. “’Scuse me,” he mutters, his voice quiet and airy. Breathy, almost. And he cocks his head expectantly, giving Dean a brief up-and-down scan that makes Dean’s breathing go funny.

Dean knows he’s meant to move aside, but he can’t seem to make his muscles work. He’s rooted where he is, like a statue. So, after a long moment, giving an impatient huff under his breath, McJones lurches forward and just tries to squeeze past. Except his shoulder bumps into Dean’s bicep as he goes.

And it’s like a switch is flipped. In the span of an instant, every nerve in Dean’s being narrows down to that single point of contact. He’s hyperaware of McJones’s sheer proximity to him, of the unexplainable gravitational pull McJones suddenly has on him. His heart flips _hard_ , stealing all the breath from his lungs. And at the same time, that bizarre warmth from last night—the ball of it rolling in the deepest parts of his stomach—rears its head again.

But then Dean blinks, and the moment’s over.

McJones is gone, off trotting into the house, not sparing a second thought for Dean. And reality comes crashing back down like an anvil. Dean physically jerks out of his trance, his lungs refilling with a startled _whoosh_. He hovers there, hearing the slam of his pulse loud in his ears, and a chilly, sinking, _what the hell_ feeling spirals out from the center of his gut. Because—

Holy fuck.

No, there’s no way. There’s no fucking way. It—this is unbelievable. But he knows it’s true. He can’t even fight it. It’s absolutely, positively undeniable:

 _Barry was right,_ he thinks, head whirling. _Barry was right the whole time._

_God fucking damn it._

* * *

The rest of the day proceeds as normal, except for the fact that Dean spends most of it internally losing his shit. The first couple of hours consist of nothing but disbelief over his newly-realized feelings. Because it just doesn’t seem possible. _How,_ in god’s name, did this sneak up on him? How did he not notice this was going on? All the other times in his life he’s had a thing for someone, he’s known about it as soon as it started developing. So how, right now, did he go from zero to head-over-heels in the span of, like, _two minutes_?

But his disbelief ends up falling to shreds pretty quickly, because after a bit of introspection and soul-searching and all that hippie crap that Lucah likes to talk about, it becomes uncomfortably obvious that this didn’t, in fact, happen in the span of two minutes. Rather, it's actually been building for quite some time. An embarrassingly long time. Like, since way before the whole thing in the mineshaft. Way, _way_ before. _Worlds_ before. The little signs have been there all along, when Dean really thinks about it—all the times his gaze lingered a little too long, all the times his heart tripped a little too forcefully, all the times he was a little too eager and overexcited. He just didn’t seem them for what they were, ‘cause, well, he’s a dumbass, what else is new?

From what he can gather, this baffling infatuation for McJones must’ve been budding and blooming somewhere deep down inside him, somewhere completely unbeknownst to him, and Barry opening his big, fat trap was just the catalyst for Dean’s subconscious to throw up all over everything in the form of a crazy, Freudian sex dream. And then Dean wigged out literally because McJones fucking _looked_ at him, and now here he is, an absolute love-struck idiot. Apparently.

And it _rots_.

Once Dean grudgingly embraces the fact that yeah, fuck, he seriously has a massive _whatever-you-wanna-call-it_ for McJones, he quickly comes to the conclusion that the whole situation sucks complete and utter donkey dick. Not because it’s shameful to like McJones specifically, ‘cause McJones is a respectable man. Sure, he can be pretty lame and preachy and boring sometimes, and he’s not puppy-dog adorable like his brother is, but he’s smart and capable and nice to talk to and actually pretty fun sometimes and just—respectable. He’s respectable. The kind of person you’d marry your daughter off to in return for three chickens and a hog if it was still the 1800s.

And not because it’s weird to have these kinds of fluttery feelings for someone you’re around basically 24/7, ‘cause Dean’s done this before. Multiple times. Because everyone has needs, okay, and sometimes you just _really_ hit it off with someone, and one thing leads to another, and...yeah. Yeah. Dean’s not new to this neck of the woods, basically. He got over any potential hang-ups the very first time he took a trip there, when he had that thing going with Ray way back when. Admittedly, it _was_ pretty awkward at first, having to go from spending, ah, _quality time_ with Ray to fighting for his life alongside him, but he got used to it. And he didn’t really have a choice, anyway; flexibility is a necessity in their lives. There are moments when getting too tangled up in the fact that you were all tangled up with someone an hour ago could literally be the difference between life and death. So Dean’s not concerned about that part either.

And not even because this means that fucking Barry was spot-on in his analysis of Dean and would be well within his rights to scream _I told you so_ from the tops of the mountains. Of course, that’s not to say that Dean isn’t mad about that too. Oh, he’s fucking _livid_ that Barry and Dodger and apparently everyone else in the entire universe had Dean all figured out before he himself even had a clue. Not to mention his mortification that he flipped out at them when it turns out they had him pegged down to a T.

But none of that is the main reason for his frustration. No, Dean’s pissed because McJones is probably the only person he has absolutely _zero_ chance with.

The others always tell Dean that he’s loud and obnoxious and tells unfunny jokes, and okay, maybe those things are kinda true. But beyond those _minor_ character flaws, Dean knows he’s actually pretty damn likeable. And he knows the others know it too. And he also knows that if he played his cards right, he could probably push things a little bit further. A little bit past friendship. If he flirted in just a certain way and showed just the right amount of interest, there’s at least a chance that they’d return the favor. Maybe not the newbies, but definitely the regulars.

The regulars excluding McJones, that is.

The thing about McJones is that he’s always seemed too good for romance—that is to say, too good for the type of romance the rest of them are able to offer. He’s in a strange league of his own, willing to play along with the whole thing as a joke but still maintaining an air of dismissiveness towards it. Everyone has needs? Not McJones, apparently. Or, not that Dean’s ever noticed, and he’s known McJones since the very beginning.

But Dean’s already been well-aware for a very long time that he—and pretty much anyone else—barely has a shot at McJones. That’s still not the issue. The _real_ steaming shit sandwich in this situation is the fact that, in light of recent, spider-related events, his previously slim chances with McJones are now probably sitting somewhere around the negative seven-millions. After all, getting someone gruesomely killed is _not_ sexy. Especially when said person pretty much hates you for it.

Basically, this whole thing is dead before it starts, and Dean’s bizarrely yet intensely bitter about it, considering he only just realized he even wanted this to be a thing approximately five seconds ago. At least the others—with the obvious exception of PBG **—** have a _possibility_ of ending up with McJones, no matter how unlikely it is. That’s more than Dean can say. God, he just had to go and get a massive anime crush on the one person who would laugh right in his face if he ever confessed, didn’t he? He’s gotta be some kind of masochist or something. Even days after the fact, McJones’s mocking words are still lodged in his head:

_But if your plan for emergencies is relying on Dean—well, frankly, you’re screwed._

Jesus Christ, what has he gotten himself into?

* * *

For once, Dean’s actually glad about having to go back to slaving away in the mines, because it means he has a while to sort himself out before he has to look McJones in the eye again. He works silently alongside Dodger for most of the time, and while she definitely notices how lost in thought he is, she luckily doesn’t bring up his outburst from yesterday.

Sometime in the afternoon, Chad leaves to help McJones and Barry gather sand by the riverbank for glass, and for the first time since they woke up in this world, Jeff takes his place in the mines. Dean and PBG rib him a little about not doing his fair share of work, but they don’t really mean it. Jeff’s been busy with other, equally important things, like making sure they have a wealth of delicious food and a nice home to come back to at the end of the day. Just yesterday, he spent hours making chairs for everyone so they don’t have to kneel on the floor anymore. He’s the resident housekeeper, almost, and they wouldn’t have it any other way.

It’s when the four of them go back up to the house to deposit their findings that Dean starts getting nervous again. Because not two minutes after they amble inside, McJones and the others come bursting in as well, laughing loudly amongst themselves. Of course, McJones is too busy doing whatever the hell to bother looking over at Dean, but his presence is still enough to make Dean bristle. ‘Cause the thing is, McJones isn’t stupid. If even fucking Dodger has Dean all figured out after, like, one second of being here, it’s almost guaranteed that McJones is fully aware of his feelings too. And Dean cannot even _begin_ to imagine a conversation he has more desire to avoid than that one. So he stays where he is, hunched over the furnace by the corner, and tries for once in his goddamn life to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

Except suddenly McJones is beside him. Fuck. His Plan A of hiding from all his problems didn’t last very long.

But what’s odd about it is, McJones doesn’t say a word to Dean. No greetings, no questions, no accusations—nothing. All he does is stand there wordlessly and watch Dean in this really disconcerting way. Swallowing tightly, Dean shoves his sleeves up and throws a lightning-fast glance in McJones’s direction. And god, how the fuck did Dean never notice how good-looking he is? In an unconventional way, sure, but good-looking all the same. Good-looking enough to make Dean break into a cold sweat the instant they lock eyes.

Shit.

Dean is so, so boned.

The silence stretches on. McJones’s eyes continue to bore into the side of Dean’s neck—Dean’s suddenly very damp neck. Dean begins to consider lighting himself on fire as an acceptable method of escaping this situation. But then, McJones finally speaks:

“Can you _hurry up_ , man? I have some mutton I really have to cook,” he says brusquely.

And Dean’s panic instantly dissipates, because oh, right, there’s no need to worry about how to act, because _they’re both fucking pissed at each other._

“Dude, fuck off, I just started smelting this iron literally a second ago,” he snaps **.** “Can you wait?”

“I’m trying not to starve to death, Dean. Some concern would be appreciated.”

PBG’s voice floats over from the other side of the room. “Hey, Stewart, you can use this furnace if you want. I’m done with it.”

“Oh, okay. Thank you.”

McJones trots away to take PBG’s place at the furnace closest to the door, and Dean turns back to his own furnace, irritation boiling in his chest. _Fucking McJones,_ he growls inside his head, his sweaty nervousness already long forgotten. _I hope he overcooks all his stupid mutton._

So, as always, life goes on.

For the next while, the seven of them sink even deeper into the depths of quest-preparation. It’s a tedious process and always has been, despite the fact that they’ve been through it dozens of times. There’s just so much to _do_ and _think about_ and shit; it feels like the work’ll never end. For one thing, the consensus is that it’s high-time they get everyone decked out with full iron tools and at least a few pieces of armor too. That takes a crapton of iron ore, so they have to pull one of those all-day intensive mining sessions where everyone digs and doesn’t stop digging until they get everything they need. It isn’t so bad, because they’re all there together to share the misery, but still. Tedious.

Also, Jeff’s been running around like crazy trying to get their farm going. Since their only carrot seeds were completely destroyed, all they can grow right now is wheat for bread, which makes it all the more important that they have animals to raise too. With Dodger’s enthusiastic help, Jeff manages to lure a couple of chickens and cows over to their house and fence them off in wide enclosures. Dean isn’t actually around to see this, but Dodger gives him a complete play-by-play of it later, her eyes round and gleaming with excitement.

And just like usual, a lot of unplanned stuff happens too. There’s a minor emergency when a pair of skeletons in a cave shoot Barry to the brink of death, but he ends up making a quick recovery under the expert care of Jeff and McJones. PBG almost dies too at one point after an unfortunate run-in with an enderman, but he and Chad manage to fight it off and flee back home, pale as ghosts and shaken to the core. And Dean himself actually trips and falls off the fucking roof of their house while trying to get a better look at the distant mountain range. As soon as the shock of the landing wears off, he flops back in the grass and screams with laughter over the fact that he nearly broke his neck in two in such a stupid way. Everyone else is significantly less amused by the whole situation, but that too is par for the course.

Finally, on the evening of their tenth day in this new world, they’re ready to set out. As the moon rises overhead, they gather ‘round the table with their armor and tools and food arranged neatly for all to see.

And then Jeff holds up his hands and says, “Wait. We never actually decided who’s going on the quest, did we?”

“Uh.” McJones blinks. After a second, he bursts out laughing. “No,” he wheezes, “no, I don’t think we did.”

“Oh my god,” Jeff splutters, laughing as well. “I can’t believe we forgot! We were just so focused on, like, farming and shit.” Shaking his head, he turns to face the rest of the group. “I guess we should do that now, then. So, who wants to go climb a mountain?”

PBG pipes up immediately: “I think _McJones_ should ‘cause he hasn’t shut up about the potions since Todd was here.”

He’s totally right; McJones has spent the majority of the past week reminding everyone how amazing of an opportunity this is and how they can’t let it go to waste and blah blah blah a bunch of crap they already know. Dean’s pretty sure McJones just likes to hear himself talk sometimes.

McJones grins, still giggling to himself. “Sure, I’ll go. I’m fine with that. I can be team captain.”

“Captain? So you wanna choose who’s going with you, then?” Jeff offers.

“Yeah,” he says, and he doesn’t even hesitate before pointing two fingers out in a V. “Chad, Dodger, you guys c’mere.”

He’s met with two pairs of wide eyes. “…Are you sure?” Chad asks after a moment.

“Of course. I think going on a quest could really help you guys improve your skills. This’ll be a good experience for y’all.”

“Well, if you really think so, then I’m down.”

“Me too, dude!” Dodger adds, and she and Chad trot over to stand beside McJones. “I really do wanna get out of this house for a while. I mean, no offense, Jeff. It’s lovely, but there’s a whole world out there too, y’know? I wanna see the sights.”

“Yeah, I feel you,” Jeff replies with an understanding dip of his head.

“We should probably take one more person along with us, I think,” McJones cuts in once more. “Four’s a nice, safe number for a journey like this, so…hm.” He scans the rest of them remaining, his fingers settled on his chin.

“What about Austin?” Chad suggests.

PBG stiffens and takes a giant step back. “Oh no no. No. You don’t want me going with you. I’m—I’m a burden.”

“Aw, don’t say that, Peebs! You’re a valued member of this team,” Dodger assures him, but he just gives her a reproachful frown.

“No, it’s true,” he and McJones say at the same time. They glance at each other for a split second, startled, before dissolving into wry, near-identical laughter. Their laughs are one of the few things that’s the same between them; they’re much more alike in manner than in face.

After a moment, McJones holds out an arm invitingly. “Barry? D’you—” he starts.

“Nah,” Barry interrupts with a light shake of his head. “I feel like I always get roped into this crap. I’d rather just stay home this time around. Play it safe.” Suddenly, Dean feels Barry’s hand between his shoulder blades, pushing him forward. “Take Dean. Me and Jeff and Peebs will hold down the fort.”

“Hell yeah!” Dodger exclaims, beckoning Dean over with both hands. “Come! Join us, dude!”

Breaking into a half-smile, Dean returns the high-five she offers him. Behind him, PBG stage-whispers, “Yes, we got rid of him! Now we won’t have to hear his stupid voice for _days_!”

Jeff snickers. “Oh, totally, dude, just like—hope he dies out there, right?—no.”

“Hey, y’all can go suck it,” Dean shoots back, giving them the finger without turning around.

Dean’s glad to be going along with the adventure crew, but the truth is, it’s also kinda bittersweet, like being picked last in middle school dodgeball. He clearly wasn’t the one McJones wanted on the team, judging by the way McJones is eyeing him warily as he stands there next to Dodger.

Finally, after what feels like an hour, McJones looks away. “…That’ll work, I suppose,” he agrees. Then, he giggles softly. “Oh no, this is gonna be Team New Kids all over again, isn’t it? I’ve made a huge mistake!”

For fuck’s sake.

Hands curling at his sides, Dean jerks a half-step forward. “Oh, don’t you worry, _Professor_ ,” he says loudly, snidely. “I’ll try not to be such a fuckup this time.”

He means it as a joke, sort of, but it comes out _way_ more bitter and angry than he wanted it to. The unexpected honesty tastes like fire on his tongue. Instantly, the air around him goes sour and thick, and an uncomfortable silence descends like fog. Everyone’s gazes bounce around the room nervously. McJones studies his fingers. Someone clears their throat awkwardly. Dean itches his cheek and mentally curses himself to hell and back for not keeping his cool.

Eventually, PBG goes, “Uh, so, you guys should probably get ready, huh?”

“Yeah.” McJones shifts, the wooden floor creaking under his weight. He leans down to peer out one of the windows Jeff and Chad installed the other day. “I think we’ll head out early tomorrow. If we keep a good pace, that should be enough time for us to make it to the base of the mountain by nightfall.”

So the four of them break away from the group to gather what they need for tomorrow’s journey. Dean, Chad, and Dodger get to work dividing up the food and raw materials evenly amongst themselves. McJones, meanwhile, starts banging out a plan of attack, scribbling down and crossing out idea after idea, a thoughtful frown etched on his face. Occasionally, he breaks away from his brainstorming to toss out some advice, telling them in a soft voice to bring backup tools or to be absolutely sure what armor they have fits properly.

They unanimously elect to freshen up for tomorrow, so once they’re through with packing and planning, they take turns heading out to bathe in the river behind their house. Chad goes first, and then Dodger, and then McJones, who comes back fresh and damp and glowing, with slicked-back hair and everything and even an almost-smile for Dean as he says, “All yours, man.”

Bathing is kind of a luxury— _real_ bathing, not just rinsing off your dirtiest parts in a bucket of water. They’re not always lucky enough to have a large water source at their disposal. Outside, Dean eagerly strips down and slides into the river, the night air cool and breezy on his bare skin. As the lazy current streams around his legs and waist, washing away all the sweat and grime and dirt that’s built up on him, his nerves pulse with the thought that McJones was standing naked in this very same spot not ten minutes ago.

Finally, when he’s all finished and dried off, he clambers into bed along with everyone else. It’s a bit of an early turn-in for them, but it’s necessary tonight. As Dean lies there, the clean, refreshed feeling coating his skin sinks down into his bones and turns into an easy warmth, coaxing him deeper and deeper into the depths of drowsiness until he’s fast sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Madam, how like you this play?”_
> 
>  
> 
> Todd! Our blessed god Todd! Todd was great in Minecraft 6 & I really hope he reprises his role as the wizard again sometime (or as the trickster? I was never really sure what was going on with his multiple identities). I actually didn’t intend for anyone in this story to be in costume, but because I don’t know anything about Final Fantasy, I didn’t realize for some time that Todd was a parody of a wizard from there. So just nobody’s in costume but Todd. Oops. 
> 
> Also, for the record, I didn't make that up: PBG and McJones really do have the same exact laugh, and it’s so cute. I love noticing all the subtle familial similarities between them. 
> 
> And by the way, I feel like this is a good time to mention that you-know-who used to be in this story. But then all the stuff went down, and I changed him into Barry. I’m just mad about it because I had written a lot of good moments involving him, and then they were all RUINED by everything that came out. But changing him to Barry was for the best, ultimately.
> 
> See you Friday!


	5. Part Five

###### Part Five

The next morning, there’s a somber mood in the air. Nobody says much of anything to each other, mostly choosing to get dressed and eat in silence. Dean and his fellow expedition-goers finish up some last-minute preparations and do a final check of their supplies. Then, all seven of them gather outside in the early-morning mist for the grand departure.

They should be back in three days, McJones informs everyone as he squints up at the distant peak of the mountain. Maybe four, tops. All things considered, it’s a fairly short adventure this time around. Just a little jaunt up a big hill to grab some potions. That’s no big deal in the whole grand scheme of Todd’s quests. Unless something goes horribly, horribly wrong, of course.

They say their farewells, then, tripping over each other’s words, their voices blending into a single, heartfelt mass of sound. Leaving is rough, largely because nothing’s guaranteed here. The four of them could die before they even reach the summit. Or they could live to successfully retrieve the potions but return home to find Barry, Jeff, and PBG lying slain in pools of their own blood. It’s that unknown factor that makes splitting up like this so hard. But they’ve had plenty of good times all together, and now it’s time to go their separate ways, at least for a little while.

Jeff sucks in a deep breath and nods once, definitively. “Dodger, Chad, whatever happens, it was great to meet you guys,” he says, his eyes solemn. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, but still. Good luck.”

“Thank you,” Dodger replies grimly. Chad nods in agreement, pushing up his glasses with his thumb.

It’s still kind of a touchy subject. On one hand, the newbies are definitely aware of all the danger they face; it’s obvious by the stiffness in their smiles and the tremble of the hands. They’ve been clawed by zombies and shot by skeletons. They’ve heard all the horror stories of worlds past. So there’s no sense in trying to hide the reality of things from them anymore. But even still, the others don’t want to just come right out and say it: _This could be the last time we ever see you alive._ The newbies’ final, lingering shreds of innocence should be preserved for as long as possible.

All of them make bland, stunted small talk for a few minutes longer, but it’s just dawdling at this point, just delaying the inevitable. Too soon, McJones is taking up his sword and offering an expectant raise of his eyebrows to his teammates. There’s one, final chorus of goodbyes, and then they start off, pushing their way through the cumbersome grass. With each step, they draw closer to the forest and farther from their home. When they reach the very edge of the trees, McJones, Dodger, and Chad slip right into the array of sturdy trunks without hesitating. Dean, though, falters, twisting to snag just one more glance behind him. But Jeff and the others are nowhere to be seen, having already headed back inside to get on with their lives. So, with a breath, Dean turns his back and plunges into the forest too.

The four of them walk with determination, with purpose. McJones is at the forefront of the group, sure, but the rest of them are right there behind him. At first, it seems like it’ll be an easy, straight shot through to the other side, no navigation necessary. But after just a short while, McJones randomly directs them to make a sharp left turn, splitting away from the linear path they’ve been following. And not long after that, they have to change direction _again_ to avoid a huge nest of spiders that took up residence right in their way. They’ve barely started, and already Dean’s so disoriented he doesn’t know which way is up, so that’s just great.

And what’s more, as they delve deeper and deeper into the forest, Dean begins to realize that it’s a lot bigger than he previously thought. He must’ve come here to gather wood a thousand times in the past week alone, but clearly, he never ventured far enough in to realize the sheer, sprawling size of it—not to mention just how _dense_ it is. The farther they get, the closer the trees crowd in until there’s barely an arm span’s distance between them. The leaves and branches reach out for each other, tangling together and blocking the sun so thoroughly that, soon enough, it’s so dark it may as well be midnight.

Right around then, McJones stops to strike up a torch. Dean adjusts his chestplate and looks around at the endless span of forest stretching out in every direction. An infinity of trees, massive and foreboding, like rows and rows of shadowed soldiers as still as the dead. Dean gazes up at them in chilled awe, and a slight tremble runs through him.

“We’re gonna get lost in here, I’m calling it,” he says finally.

McJones doesn’t look up. “No we’re not.”

“We can’t see dick, dude. And everything looks exactly the same. How do we know we’re not just fucking wandering in circles?”

“Dean, we’re walking forwards. That’s it. The only reason I had us take a left back there is ‘cause there was big area with a bunch of ravines and fallen trees. I figured it would be safer to just go around it. Austin and I came this way a few times when we were out hunting, so kinda I know the layout of the land, and I did a lot of planning to figure out the safest way through. _Trust me_ , it’s fine.”

“The fact that you say _kinda_ doesn’t give me much hope.”

McJones’s only response is a heavy sigh. And then, lifting his torch, he bangs another left through a pair of gnarled birches. Which are identical to every pair of gnarled birches they’ve passed in the last ten minutes. This is stupid. There’s no goddamn way he knows what he’s doing. There’s not a single landmark to tell them where they are. He’s definitely just pulling this out of his ass.

But they keep moving. Ten minutes turns into twenty, and twenty turns into forty. Except for the occasional remark coming from one of them, the forest is still. Like, unnervingly still. No chirping birds, no buzzing cicadas, no rustling leaves. Nothing at all. Dean’s never felt such an oppressive silence in his life. Every crunching step in the grass sounds as loud as an explosion, and the utter emptiness encircling them is extremely unsettling. And yet, Dean also has this feeling of being watched, like the trees have eyes or something. He wants to ask the others if they feel it too, but he keeps his mouth shut because he doesn’t want McJones to get pissy with him. _Shut up, Dean,_ is what McJones would say, harsh and biting. _I_ told _you I know what I’m doing._

They wind around and around through the trees, following McJones as he troops along. The grass is shorter here beneath the impenetrable canopy of leaves, making it a lot easier to move—although it’s still plenty long enough to trip you if you’re not careful. The air is thick and stagnant, with not even the whisper of a breeze to stir it around. As he brings up the rear, his gaze lingering on the back of Dodger’s pulled-up hair, Dean’s mind dances in and out of alertness. He actually has to fight himself to keep from switching over to autopilot altogether. Hopefully this whole adventure is gonna get more interesting soon, ‘cause this is pretty—

There’s a twang.

Dean’s head snaps up to see an arrow streak out of the darkness. It misses Dodger’s face by an inch and lodges in the tree beside her with a dull _thock_. Dodger chokes out a strangled noise, going ramrod-stiff, and Dean can see all the color draining out of her. In front of them, McJones spins around.

“What was tha—” he starts, but right as he speaks, two more arrows burst from deep within the trees and zip towards Dodger. She snaps free of her paralysis, stumbling out of the way just in time to avoid getting potted right in the chest.

“Holy shit! Holy _shit!_ I’m being attacked! Something’s shooting at me!” she screeches, throwing up her shield in a panic.

It takes McJones all of two seconds to snap into defense mode. “Get back!” he barks, already unsheathing his sword and darting forward, putting himself in front of Dodger. She falls obediently behind him and fumbles for her own sword. Chad and Dean position themselves on either side of them, eyes locking onto the spot from where the arrows flew. Their quadruplet breathing is loud and tense as they brace themselves.

Without warning, a pair of skeletons charge from behind one of the trees. And there’s not a moment to react before they let loose with another torrent of arrows.

“Archers, ten o’clock!” Dean bellows, and he ducks fast behind his shield. The arrows slam into the wood hard enough to split all the way through and knock him off-balance. A few even manage to catch him on the side, glancing off of his armor with stunning force.

As soon as there’s a lull in the shooting, McJones is up and sprinting forward, landing a striking blow across one of the skeleton’s skulls. Chad’s right there beside him, and he goes in for the kill with a jagged slice that snaps through its neck and ribcage. Dean takes on the second skeleton and slays it with practiced ease, and he thinks that’s going to be the end of it.

But then, he feels another arrow whisk past his cheek, grazing his skin. “ _Fuck_ ,” he spits, jerking back. He slaps his hand over the wound to catch the blood that’s already bubbling up there and turns to pinpoint the source of the shot—another skeleton about twenty feet away that all of them somehow missed. Dean’s fingers clench on the hilt of his sword, and he’s about to call out a warning to the others.

Except, all at once, there comes a cascade of creaking bones that freezes him in his tracks. Because the sound seems to come not from the skeleton he’s looking at, but from _everywhere_ , from _all_ around them. His heart lurches, missing a beat, and a brief glance at the expression on McJones’s face confirms his terrible suspicion:

It wasn’t just a couple of rogue archers. No, they’re surrounded.

Dean fucking knew it. He knew something wasn’t right. He knew something was lurking in the murk between the trees. He should’ve trusted his gut when he had the chance.

Just as the thought surges in his mind, a veritable _legion_ of skeletons comes pouring out of the shadows. There’s at least a dozen of them, each with a nocked bow trained right on Dean and the others. In less time than it takes to blink, they’re within firing distance. And an acid rain of arrows comes flying forth.

 _“Oh shit!”_  Dean shrieks, but he holds his ground, gritting his teeth and letting his shield take the brunt of the hits. The instant he finds an opening, he throws himself at the horde with a battle cry and a wide lash of his sword, and the sound of pounding footsteps close by tells him that the others are following suit.

And then, they _fight_. Dean can barely make out the thin, angular features of the skeletons in the darkness, but that doesn’t stop him. He swings wildly, uncoordinatedly, catching ribs and vertebrae and mandibles with the edge of his blade. The one shred of good news in all of this is that the skeleton’s bows aren’t very useful at close range. But even so, Dean still feels the jagged sting of arrows cutting through his skin.

From somewhere nearby, McJones calls out, “Watch your back! Don’t let yourself get cornered!”

“Nice one, McJones!” Dean hollers. “You said you knew the layout of the fucking land, but you—oh, _fuck—”_ a guy tries to get him from behind, but he whirls and slices it right between its empty eye sockets, “—you still couldn’t have us avoid the skeleton house party of the summer?”

“How was I supposed to know they were here?!” McJones yells back.

Suddenly, Dodger screams again, and through a gap in the fray, Dean sees her tearing off into the trees, pursued by several skeletons. His heart freezes for a moment, but there’s nothing he can do for her right now. So he gives a silent plea that she makes it out of this okay before rounding on the next skeleton that dares shoot at him.

 _“Fuck you_ ,” he spits as he chops its head clean off. His insides are boiling with the mixture of adrenaline and bloodlust that he always gets in high-stakes battles like this, and he bounces from foot to foot. “C’mon,” he goads, chin raised, sword poised, a dark smile splitting his face, “which one of you scrubs wants to try me next?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Chad fleeing the battle as well. Which leaves two of them, maybe. He doesn’t actually know where McJones is—McJones’s torch has long since been snuffed out—but Dean’s pretty sure he’s still around here somewhere. There’s not much chance to wonder about that, though, before another group of skeletons advances on Dean. He circles around a nearby tree to give himself some more room to fight, and he shields off the impact of three arrows as he presses forward again.

He tries to take down the first skeleton with a jab to the spine, but his aim is off, and his sword trips harmlessly between its ribs. He recovers with a feint to the left and a fast blow to the pelvis that knocks the skeleton back. In the few seconds it takes it to draw its bow, Dean drives his sword through its neck and leaves it to die, nothing more than a pile of dust and bones on the ground.

Then, right as Dean jumps back and pivots around, there’s a blazing flash of pain that sends him crying out. Fire roars up the whole side of his leg, and he stumbles, gasping, his fingers curling involuntarily. The head of an arrow has sunk deep into his calf, and he can already feel the slick of blood streaming down his leg beneath his pants, seeping through the cloth. He curses roughly, but there’s no time to hesitate; the other skeletons are coming at him, bows at the ready. But when he tries to rush them, his head spins like a sloshed glass, and he reels sideways, barely managing to stay upright. As he plants his feet to steady himself, he realizes that he’s starting to feel chilly and out of breath. When he stills, he can feel his heartbeat throbbing in all the spots where arrows have nicked him, and his eyes are flickering with cloudiness.

“Oh god, oh _god_ , not like this,” he hisses. This is bad. This is really bad. In the heat of it, he didn’t notice how hurt he was. But if he doesn’t get out of here and heal up soon, he could actually die.

Frantically, Dean scans his surroundings, searching for an escape route, some kind of hole in the mess of skeletons around him. There’s a spot to his right that's mostly vacant, so as soon as gets his bearings, he puts his head down and bolts towards it. Skeletal hands grab at him as he runs, and arrows whiz past him from all angles, but he brute-forces his way out of the pack and bursts back into the open, panting heavily. He’s not in the clear yet, though. A quick glance behind him tells him that there are still two skeletons on his ass, their bows aimed at him. So he whirls again and zigzags through the trees, yelping as a volley of arrows hurtle past his head. His injured leg screams in agony, but he ignores it and pushes himself to run faster, harder still. 

He tears through the forest for what’s probably only a minute or so but feels like hours. His own panting is heavy in his ears. His eyes are trained on the ground speeding by beneath his feet. The searing throb of his wound digs into his muscle with every step. But slowly, so slowly, he hears the sound of arrow fire from his pursuers start to fade away behind him. Slowing to a jog, he checks over his shoulder again. The skeletons are a ways back from him now, and they’re both facing the opposite direction. He’s pretty sure he managed to lose them. Good.

Before they can spot him again, Dean darts behind a nearby tree and slides down into a crouch, urgently pulling open his bag. He yanks out the first bit of food he sees—a stale slice of bread—and shoves it into his mouth, spraying crumbs everywhere. His vision goes spotty once more as he chews, but he’s not worried; now that he’s out of danger and has something to eat, he should be fine.

And then, out of nowhere, McJones comes skidding around the trunk of Dean’s tree. He halts in place as soon as he sees Dean sitting there on the ground.

“ _Dean_?” he says, looking frazzled. There’s a rip in the side of his shirt, and he’s bleeding in several places.

“I had to eat,” Dean tells him through a mouthful of dry bread. “There were like two guys on me, and they’re still around here somewhere, so watch out.”

McJones stares at him for a few more seconds. Then, he leans over to peek warily around the tree. “ _Woo_ , yeah, I see them.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Not great.”

“Actually, I think I gave ‘em the slip, so it’s kinda chill.”

“Hm.” McJones scratches the stubble on his jawline. There’s blood on his fingers. “Where are Dodger and Chad?” he asks.

“Dude, they hauled ass out of here as soon as it got bad. I think they’re probably okay, though. I haven’t felt anything.” Dean presses his hand to his chest, right over that familiar spot in the very center of his heart.

McJones nods slowly. “I haven’t either. I guess that’s a good sign.”

They fall silent for a moment. Dean polishes off the rest of his bread and inspects the current state of his calf. The offending arrow is long-gone, having unstuck itself from him sometime during the fight, and the wound’s already beginning to clot over. Dean brushes away a stray trickle of blood and stands carefully.

“Okay, I think I’m good now,” he announces, and he pulls his sword back out in one motion. “Should we tag-team ‘em, do you think?”

He goes to step around at the tree, his sword and shield both at the ready just in case the skeletons are lying in wait. But McJones abruptly grabs at his elbow, stopping him. His skin flashes hot all over, and his heart stutter-steps as he turns to look down at McJones.

“Wait. I have a better idea,” McJones says, letting go of Dean. He reaches back behind himself, and for the first time, Dean notices he has a worn bow slung over his shoulder.

“Hey, where’d you get that?”

“I jacked it from one of the first ones I killed.”

McJones tugs gently on the string. Then, he peers around the trunk again, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

Dean gapes at him. “Hold up, are—are you gonna try to _snipe_ them with their own shit?!” Wordlessly, McJones reaches down to yank free one of the arrows embedded in his shield. Dean covers his face in disbelief. “Oh my god.”

“Look, it’ll be better than trying to fight them melee. A lot less risk this way. Also—” McJones finally glances over at him, “—shut up, would you? If you keep talking so loud, they’ll hear us, and then this whole plan will be moot.”

 _“You’re_ moot,” Dean mutters under his breath. But even still, he watches McJones with a mixture of anticipation and bafflement. This is a fucking stupid idea. McJones has got to be out of his mind. But then again, they have a surprisingly high success rate with fucking stupid ideas. Dean gives this about a twenty-seven percent chance of going well.

McJones nocks the arrow, sighing between his teeth. “This is a righty bow, so this’ll be a little tricky, but...”

He cautiously draws back the bowstring, his muscles tightened in concentration. He hovers there for a beat, as still as the trees around them, one eye squeezed shut to aim. Then, with a twitch of his fingers, he releases. And to Dean’s utter shock, the arrow strikes true, lodging itself in the side of one of the skeleton’s skulls with a sickening _crack_. Both it and its friend turn, zeroing on McJones and Dean’s hiding spot, but it doesn’t matter; McJones finishes them both off with couple of quick shots before they can even get close.

Damn. Dean’s genuinely impressed that McJones pulled it off, and it definitely shows on his face as he spins to face McJones again. “Holy shit!” he exclaims. “Murked by their own weapons! That was actually baller.”

“I told you so,” McJones says, resting the bow on the tip of his boot. He runs his bloody hand through his hair and leans around the tree once more. “Now, I don’t see any more of them, so let’s get outta here while we can.”

He gives a little bit of a laugh and looks up at Dean expectantly, arm raised and fingers still buried in his hair. His eyes are mostly shadowed and unreadable, but there’s a tiny flash of wildness behind them, a lingering high from their barbaric victory. He’s standing close to Dean too, his arm nearly pressed up against Dean’s, and his mouth is parted just a hair’s width. Just enough for Dean to really, _really_ notice.

Dean’s stomach rolls over, and suddenly his tongue feels all dried up.

“R—right,” he says quietly, licking his lips. And he follows McJones as they start off again through the trees.

Goddamn it.

This is some serious, life-ruining bullshit right here. His feelings flip and flop from hour to hour, changing and cycling around so much that Dean can barely keep track of them. Sometimes he’s filled with nothing but aggravation and indignation towards McJones, and he thinks that he’d be just fine if he never saw McJones’s stupid face ever again.

But other times, times like these, it’s the polar opposite: Desire rushes up hot inside of him as fast and hard as a tsunami, kicking his heartbeat into overdrive and making him lightheaded. And he _wants_. Oh god, he _wants_ so fucking badly. As he follows McJones out from behind their tree, all he can think about is how much he wants to grab McJones’s shoulders and pull him close and kiss him for fucking _days_ and press all up against him in the most sensitive places and—and just a whole lot of awful, filthy things. He wants it all.

But there’s a proper time and place for those kinds of thoughts, and it sure isn’t right fucking now. So Dean just tamps them down with a taut shake of his head.

He and McJones are able to recognize the place they came from based on the telltale arrows stuck in the tree from when Dodger was first shot at. And no sooner do they find it than Chad and Dodger themselves pop back out of the woodwork too.

“Hey, there you are. Are you guys okay?” McJones asks as soon as he sees them.

“Yeah, we’re alright. None of them actually shot me, I don’t think,” Chad affirms. He rubs his eyes under his glasses, dazed. “Holy frick, dude. That was insane.”

“They didn’t get me too badly either,” Dodger says. There’s a cut on her forehead that’s smeared with blood the same color as her hair. Then, sheepishly, she adds, “Sorry I ran away. I—I was being ganged up on. I couldn’t deal.”

McJones shakes his head. “No, no, don’t worry about it. That was a lot for y’all’s first real fight. That was a lot for Dean and I, even. Like I said, I hadn’t known we were going to run into that mess. If I had, I definitely would’ve tried to avoid it.”

The four of them take care of their largely minor wounds, cleaning them and bandaging them up as best they can, before setting out again. There are a few skeletons still lingering in the vicinity, but they managed to evade them and slip away into the depths of the forest. McJones takes that opportunity to deliver a homily about how sometimes it’s better to run than fight and vice versa, and how you have be able to evaluate a situation quickly in order to choose the better option, and all that shit. The newbies listen attentively to him, because they haven’t yet learned any better. Dean, on the other hand, is experienced enough to know that only about a third of what McJones says is actually useful, and this ain’t part of it.

The rest of their trek through the forest is uneventful. They run into a handful of zombies, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary for somewhere so dark. Nothing like a skeleton horde armed to the teeth. After another hour or two, they finally reach the end of the trees and emerge back out onto the open prairie, the comfort of light enveloping them once more. In front of them stretches a long, empty swath of grass that’ll take at least a couple more hours to traverse. And beyond that is their target mountain, looming over them dauntingly. The majority of it is covered by a layer of lush grass, but the vegetation begins to fade away near the peak, and there’s what looks to be a very faint, very rugged path snaking around the rolling terrain. The fact that there’s a trail is little comfort to Dean; the mountain itself seems pretty treacherous, with tons of precarious spots that any one of them could easily lose their footing on. And if they fall from that height—

— _Splat_. Instadeath.

Dean shivers.

But for now, though, it’s smooth sailing. There’s even less danger out on the prairie than there was in the forest. All that they really have to worry about is getting burnt to a crisp under the harsh sun. It’s so constantly bright that Dean’s face is actually starting to ache from all the squinting he’s been doing. Barry’s probably pretty damn glad to have sunglasses right about now. Maybe he’ll let Dean borrow them for a bit when they get back. Although, then again, the sunglasses-on-top-of-actual-glasses style isn’t exactly the look Dean’s going for.

It’s not too terribly late by the time they reach the base of the mountain, but McJones points out that it’ll be near-impossible to find a good place to camp for the night if they start their ascent now, so they decide to just call it a day early. They mine out a cozy little alcove in the side of the mountain, stick a furnace and a crafting table in the corner, dump their bags on the floor, and finally take a moment to breathe after their long first day of journeying.

Even though it’ll be a little while before they go to bed, they unroll their sleeping mats to give themselves somewhere comfortable to sit. It’s not a big area; there’s enough room for the four of them to spread out in a lopsided arc shape, but that’s about it. Dodger quickly lays claim to the spot right up against one of the jagged walls of their cave. Chad plops down next to her, stretching out his legs with a content sigh, while Dean chooses the space nearest the furnace—which would be prime real-estate if it weren’t always five bazillion degrees here.

McJones bustles around at the crafting table for a few minutes, but once he sees that everyone else has decided to forgo doing work and just _chill_ for once, he grabs out his sleeping mat as well. He steps carefully over Chad’s legs to stand between him and Dean, eyeing the ground. Carefully, he kneels, laying out his mat and smoothing the corners down with an air of fussiness. Dean watches, his elbows braced on his knees, and after a pause, McJones twists to glance at him. He meets McJones’s eyes, raising an eyebrow. And then, the two of them just stare at each other for a good, long couple of seconds.

“...Dean, you better not roll on top of me in the middle of the night,” McJones finally grumbles, sitting all the way down.

Dean makes a noise halfway between a choke and a scoff. “Wh—I’ve never done that.”

“Oh yes, you have. I’ve just been lucky enough to wake up in time to stop you from crushing me to death.” McJones shakes his head. “And I’m _not_ in the mood for that tonight, so just don’t. Please.”

“But—but—” Dean splutters, a little taken aback, because this is news to him, “—okay, dude, look, even if I did roll around in my sleep—which I _don’t_ , by the way—what’s your problem? PBG definitely does the rolling thing, but you don’t complain about being by him at night.”

“Yeah, because he’s my little brother, and I’ve had years of practice sleeping in close quarters with him,” McJones counters. “And anyway, he doesn’t roll, he just flails sometimes, but he’ll cut it out if you give him a good punch in the side.” He mimes a classic older-brother slug, and Dean glares at him.

“You better not punch me.”

“Well, you better not roll on me.”

Dean throws out his hands. _“I’ve_ _never done that!”_

“Then I guess we’re all good, then.”

McJones shrugs and laces his fingers behind his head. Dodger and Chad look to be just barely holding back laughter at this whole exchange. Dean glares some more at all of them and wishes he was the type of person who could think of good comebacks on the spot.

After that, they unwind for a while. Dodger pulls the bow McJones pilfered from the skeletons into her lap and starts fiddling with it. McJones and Chad pour over Todd’s leather-bound book together, parsing through his cryptic instructions in hushed voices. And Dean takes a catnap, all stretched out on his mat with his ankles crossed and his arm thrown over his eyes to block out the light. It’s more of a quiet, peaceful resting of his mind than an actual sleep, but it’s just what his tired body needs.

He’s roused some time later by McJones nudging him and hissing, “Dinner, Dean.” And when he drowsily slides open his eyes, he finds McJones leaning over him and staring right down into his face. To say it startles him would be an understatement. McJones is close. Too close. Discomfortingly close. His hair is draped onto his forehead, and his hand is surprisingly gentle where it lingers on Dean’s shoulder. And Dean could maybe even trace each, individual fleck of green in his hazel irises.

With a start, Dean jolts upright and scoots away until his back is pressed against the wall. “J-Jesus Christ, McJones,” he says, skin warming. There’s this slight tremor in his wrists too. “My _heart_. You scared the shit outta me, dude. Don’t do that.”

McJones tosses back a cursory, “Sorry.” He’s already standing, heading back over to where their bags are to finish gathering up the supplies they’ve brought along. Still jittery, Dean studies him as he divides the days’ food—various types of meat along with a smattering of apples—among the four of them and then sits back down to join the others in eating.

“Mmm,” says Dodger as she bites into a chop of something, her legs criss-crossed applesauce-style. “This is delicious. Is it Jeff’s cooking?”

“Yeah, he made ‘em special for us this morning to take with us.”

“Damn, he’s good.”

Grinning, she lets her head loll back to look at McJones. Her boots have disappeared off to who knows where, and her tiny feet are bare again. This is, like, the thirtieth time this has happened this week. Dean’s starting to think she just hates wearing shoes.

“He’s so good,” McJones agrees. “Best frickin’ food I’ve ever had in my life. I don’t know what we’d do without him.”

Then, Chad interrupts to bring up something he and McJones read in Todd’s book, which steers the conversation in a completely different direction for a while. Dean mostly listens quietly, because this kind of thing isn’t his forte. All this planning and strategizing bullshit. He’s been working on checking his impulsivity and stopping to think before acting, and he’s a lot better at it than he used to be. But even still, trying to figure out _exactly_ what to do in a situation before said situation even happens just makes his head spin. He prefers to deal with things as they come. It’s just his nature to shoot from the hip.

For once, though, he doesn’t mind listening to McJones chatter on about tomorrow’s game plan. McJones has a nice voice, honestly. It’s soft and kinda high, with an accent spilling out in some of his vowels and a little bit of a whistling lisp on his _S_ ’s. He’s actually got pretty good singing voice too, come to think of it. He’s not really much of a singer; mostly, he just busts into these dumb, improvised duets with PBG every so often when the two of them are bored or stressed. But Dean sometimes catches him warbling under his breath when he thinks he’s alone, and he genuinely can carry a tune. Dean tried to tell him so once, but he just got weird and flustered about it.

 “Yeah,” McJones is saying to the rest of them now, “we have to be careful. Todd basically told us outright that there’s gonna be stuff we have to fight, so we can’t let our guard down like we did today. Things turned out alright, I know, but we easily could’ve lost someone back there in the woods.” He polishes off the last scraps of his steak and licks his lips slowly, languidly.

“Definitely,” Dodger mumbles in reply, sucking in her cheeks. A moment passes. “...Speaking of, sorry we, like, suck.”

“How’s that?”

“I mean, you and Dean and everyone spent so much time training us on how to deal with that shit, but we just ran away as soon as the bad guys popped out.” She lifts a shoulder self-consciously.

Chad nods. “Yeah, you guys are always so calm and collected, but I’m—I dunno. I just freeze up whenever one of those things gets close to me. God, those frickin’ _eye sockets_.” He winces, shuddering. “I’m gonna have nightmares, I swear.”

“What, you think _Dean_ is calm? How long have you been here again?” McJones says in an exaggerated tone, and then he breaks off to giggle at his own joke. It’s actually really fucking cute, and Dean forgets to be insulted. “But for real, you guys actually aren’t half bad. I’ve seen a lot worse. And you actually _listen_ to me, which I seriously appreciate. Nobody else around here ever does that.” He coughs slightly. “…Not to sound arrogant or anything, of course. I just think things would be a lot less chaotic if people would defer to me sometimes. But they don’t. Ever.”

“For real?” Chad gives a loud guffaw. He laughs in this noisy, aqueous kind of way that shakes his whole body. It’s super contagious, and Dean finds himself chuckling as well. “I woulda said the opposite. Everyone really seems to respect you and want your input on things.”

McJones makes a face. “Well, some people do, I’ll give you that. But most don’t. I mean, just look at Austin: he’s _so_ impulsive, and he’s always getting himself killed for the dumbest reasons. But whenever I try to explain this to him, it’s like I trigger some sort of innate, _do-the-exact-opposite-of-whatever-Stewart-says_ response in him. It’s uncanny. Maybe someday he’ll start following my advice, but it’s never happened once in my entire life, so I’ve pretty much lost all faith by now.”

“You say that like you’ve been lecturing him since he was born,” Dean points out through a bite of apple. “Like you were three years old and already yelling at your baby brother for being stupid or whatever.”

And to Dean’s surprise, this actually gets a short bark of a laugh from McJones. “Exactly! Austin was the most reckless toddler I’ve ever seen. Putting crap he found on the floor in his mouth and everything. What a moron, right?”

Then, he offers Dean a genuine half-smile, and Dean almost drops his apple in shock. Come to think of it, he realizes with a fair amount of surprise, McJones _has_ been pretty okay towards him today. They’ve come to a temporary, unspoken truce, it seems like. Dean’s not sure how long it’ll last, but he’ll definitely take anything he can get.

Obviously, they can only carry a finite amount of food with them, so it’s not their most extravagant or filling meal, but it’s good enough. When they’re through eating, they mosey around for a bit, cleaning up and getting organized for the morning. But once the raspy growls of zombies start to filter in from outside, McJones stretches, yawns, and says, “Well, we should probably turn in now if we want to be rested up for tomorrow.”

“Mountain climbing, hell yeah!” Dodger cheers, and McJones chuckles under his breath, giving her an amused smirk. The two of them have been getting on surprisingly well ever since they first met. Dodger’s truly someone after Dean’s own heart, and yet she doesn’t seem to piss off McJones like Dean always has. It’s clear from the way she and McJones interact that they’re each a little bit charmed by the other. There’s just this sense of mutual endearment there between them.

McJones goes around and puts out the torches they’ve hung until the only light sources are the dying coals of the furnace and a few beams of moonlight, streaming between the gaps in the makeshift cobblestone wall blocking off the entrance to their hidey-hole. Meanwhile, Dean kicks off his boots and sprawls out on his sleeping mat again, and even though he just took a rest like, fuckin’, an hour ago, he’s tired all over again as soon as his head drops down.

Dodger undoes her hair; Chad pulls off his shirt with one hand, Kobeing it into his bag in the corner; and McJones finally comes over and slides onto his mat too, giving a contented sigh that maybe only Dean hears. After a moment, McJones rolls over onto his side so his back is to Dean. Dean isn’t sure if he ought to read into that or not. He’s hoping not.

“’Night, y’all,” he says, raking his hair back with his fingers so that it’s splayed across the mat.

“G’night!” Dodger and Chad chorus.

McJones’s voice comes in a second later, quieter: “Yeah, ‘night.”

From this angle, Dean has an absolutely fantastic view of the wispy hairs on McJones’s nape. Of the delicate, soft-looking lines of his neck. Of the shadowy form of his body in the low light, rolling up and down from shoulders to ankles like the mountains they’re about to climb. Dean starts to get that now-familiar burn in the spot where his chest meets his throat, and he swallows hard. Squeezing his eyes shut, he listens to the comforting sounds of his friends’ steady breathing and waits for sleep to find him.

               

 

 

 

_bright._

_it’s so bright._

_too bright. dean’s eyes are burning._

_he’s standing in the middle of it. glaring, white nothingness for forever and ever. he presses his hands over his eyelids, but it doesn’t help. the light comes right through his fingers._

_too bright. it hurts._

_he wants it to stop._

_stop._

_make it stop._

_and then it does._

_the light falls away. everything dims._

_dean uncovers his face. he can see now. it doesn’t hurt anymore._

_when he blinks open his eyes, he finds a figure standing there._

_a person in front of him._

_they’re casting a shadow over him. they’re the one who stopped the light._

_“hello?” dean calls. he takes a step forward. it’s hard to move. it feels like he’s submerged in water._

_the figure lifts their head._

_mcjones._

_the name comes to dean like the snap of a rubber band. it’s mcjones. how did he get here?_

_no, it doesn’t matter. he’s here now. and that’s all that’s important._

_dean’s so happy. so happy to see mcjones. he missed mcjones so much. he smiles. smiles. feels it stretch the skin on his cheeks._

_he walks forward, fighting the water around him. the closer he gets, the smaller the shadow cast over him becomes. but he doesn’t care anymore. he’ll brave the burning light to reach mcjones._

_but wait. no._

_no._

_something’s wrong._

_dean’s just a few feet from mcjones now. and that’s when he sees._

_mcjones is covered in blood._

_his shirt is soaked through, matted to his chest. his skin is streaked with it in large swaths. it’s shiny and wet and fresh. and it smells like metal so strongly that dean wants to throw up._

_but then, through his revulsion, he realizes something more._

_mcjones is crying. no, sobbing. trembling so violently he seems about to snap in two._

_he swipes a blood-stained fist across his cheeks, but the tears keep falling. he gasps shakily, sounding broken. like he’s being crushed under the weight of his own anguish._

_his swollen eyes slowly roll up to grab hold of dean’s. and dean’s heart breaks in half._

_he has to do something. he has to help. he can’t just let mcjones cry all alone._

_he has to make the hurt go away._

_he takes another step closer. it’s so bright again. and he can barely move against the water. but he won’t stop. mcjones reaches out for him, face crumpling._

_“dean,” he whimpers. his voice twists like a knife in dean’s chest. he’s so, so bloody, but dean doesn’t care anymore._

_“stewart, I’m here,” he breathes in reply, aching with every word. “i’m here. it’s okay.”_

_hold him. protect him. kiss him. kiss away the tears in his eyes. don’t let him go until he’s okay._

_but the instant dean stretches out his arms to pull him close, mcjones draws back. his hands shoot out and connect hard with dean’s chest. dean stumbles backwards. he hits the ground so hard his head rattles._

_mcjones stands over him. his face is a contorted black hole. there’s nothing there._

_“you did this to me,” he says in a hollow voice. “it’s all your fault. you killed me, you fucking monster.”_

_dean shatters into a thousand pieces all over the floor._

_horror rises in his throat. all of the blood all over mcjones—_

_it’s because of him._

_“i didn’t mean to.” the words spill off of his tongue. the folds of his mind are unraveling. torn apart. “i didn’t want you to die. i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to hurt you.”_

_his hands are wet. the water? he looks down._

_no._

_no._

_it’s not water, it’s blood._

_mcjones’s blood._

_everywhere._

_an ocean of it, surrounding him._

_a scream boils up in dean’s throat, but he can’t open his mouth. mcjones lurches closer._

_his arm._

_his arm is what’s bleeding this much. it’s cut so deeply dean can see right to the bone._

_muscles and veins and sinew hanging loose like cut string._

_torn-up, meaty flesh._

_so much blood._

_this is wrong. this is all wrong. dean has to get away._

_but he can’t move. the ocean of blood rises around him. he’ll drown._

_but he deserves to._

_it’s his fault. he did this._

_he did this._

_he did this._

_he—_

Dean wakes up.

His nerves fray out in every direction, and for a moment, he’s choked by utter panic. But then, reality comes back to him, and so too does his breath come back to his lungs. Slowly, slowly, he shifts his muscles, pushing himself up to a sitting position. His brain begins to wind itself up to speed again.

A little on the nose there. Jesus H. Christ.

He likes his shirtless-McJones dreams way better.

Dean digs his hands into his hair, trying to focus on the steady pattern of his inhales and exhales to calm himself down. _It’s okay, it’s okay_ , he tells himself. None of that was real. It’s the middle of the night, and he’s in a cave with his friends. McJones is alive and okay and whole. He’s not bleeding oceans of red. His face isn’t a black hole of emptiness. It was just a dream, just Dean’s own mind playing a cruel game with him. Everything’s okay.

But really, nothing’s okay. Because even if it was just a dream, it was woven from threads of truth. McJones really was covered in his own blood. His arm really was ripped open so deep and raw and ugly.

And worst of all, it really was all Dean’s fault.

“Fuck,” Dean hisses, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. The guilt feels like a boulder of lead in the core of his stomach. It’s cold and heavy, rolling around and decimating everything in its path. He’s nauseous with regret, and for the millionth time, the thought stamps itself in his head: Why couldn’t he have just brought the goddamn _milk_?

Then, abruptly, there comes a gentle whisper of a voice that startles Dean so much he almost screams:

“Dean?”

His head snaps over. McJones is curled up there on the adjacent mat, and he’s looking over at Dean with confused, half-cracked eyes. He isn’t wearing his glasses, and his face looks strange and empty without them. He always takes them off to sleep. Dean never does the same, though; he’s always thought that if they ever get ambushed in the night, it’ll be better if he can get going without having to waste precious time fumbling around for his eyes.

“Shit, did I wake you up?” Dean says softly. “Sorry, man.” He gives a quick glance over to Chad and Dodger, but thankfully, they’re both still fast asleep.

“What happened?” McJones asks. His voice is bleary around the edges, and it comes out slurred, sounding more like _wha’ ‘appen?_

Dean presses his lips together. “I—I had a nightmare. Freaked me out a little, that’s all.”

“Oh.”

Dean’s eyes have adjusted by now, and it’s actually not quite as dark as it seemed before. The furnace fire has completely died out, but the light filtering into their cave is more than enough to cast a thin glow on everything. Must be a full moon out there or something.

There’s a gentle draft in the air too. A warm breeze presses at the back of Dean’s neck, at the hair on his forehead. He relishes in it for a few seconds, letting it steal away some of his bad feelings. This world is nice. Despite all the heat during the day, the nights are downright gorgeous. They all really _should_ go out frolicking in the twilight sometime.

Then _,_ McJones lifts himself up onto his forearm with a soft grunt, studying Dean.

“Are you okay?”

The question catches Dean completely off-guard, and something twinges inside of him. Because it sounds _sincere_. Instead of being pissed that Dean woke him at who-knows-what-the-hell o’clock in the morning, McJones just wants to know if Dean’s okay. No anger, no passive-aggression. Only what seems to be actual concern. _God, McJones,_ Dean thinks, chewing his lower lip. _God_.

After a beat, he replies, “Yeah,” with a slight tip of his head.

And he’s not lying, not really. His pulse has slowed to a reasonable pace, and the knot of fear in his chest has loosened and fallen away. In the moment, he’s even managed to push the mineshaft incident to the back of his mind, easing the strain of guilt on his back.

“Good,” McJones breathes. He blinks up at Dean sleepily. Adorably. And that’s all it takes to tip Dean over the edge that he’s been dancing on since this conversation started, and that nervous fire blazes to life in his stomach.

There’s barely any space between the two of them, come to think of it; their sleeping mats can’t be more than a foot or two apart. It would be so easy—so dangerously easy—to reach out and touch McJones. And now that Dean’s noticed this, he can’t stop himself from entertaining the idea, from letting himself indulge for just a minute.

He imagines reaching his hand out slowly, carefully. Gliding the tips of his fingers across McJones’s cheek before finally settling them at the soft spot just beneath his ear. McJones would lean slightly into the touch, looking up at Dean with eyes glittering in the faint moonlight. A few, hesitant seconds would pass before Dean gently tips McJones’s chin up and starts to lean in. McJones would meet him halfway, eyelids fluttering closed, head angled just so. And finally, they would kiss, sweetly, tenderly, mouths fitting perfectly together like they were made for it.

Dean forcibly yanks himself out of his fantasy, then, because he’s afraid that otherwise, he might do something he really shouldn’t. It’s something in the rays of the moon, in the tranquil quiet that’s fallen over both of them, that’s bewitching him.

Finally, McJones lets himself fall back down onto his mat, and this time, he’s facing Dean. After a brief stretch, Dean does the same. But instead of flopping over onto his stomach, he boldly turns onto his side to face McJones right back. Their gazes find each other, catch, and hold tight, like a grappling hook snagging a crevice atop a cliff.

Just a foot or two of space separating them, that’s all.

McJones’s eyelids are half lowered, and he’s watching Dean in this soft way that makes Dean feel like he’s being taken apart from the inside out. _Eye sex_ is the phrase that pops into Dean’s head out of nowhere, but it makes no sense, because this couldn’t be considered sex in any sense of the word. It’s just Dean being…

…Well, being Dean.

“See you in the morning,” McJones whispers then, husky, and Dean files each and every one of those words away in his brain to be sure he’ll never forget them. Never forget this moment, this rare breath he’s able to take in the suffocation that’s been hanging around the two of them lately. 

“Yeah, see you,” Dean says back. _I’m so sorry_ , he thinks but doesn’t add.

And he buries his face in the softness of his mat and drifts off into a—thankfully—dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Everything’s okay.”  
> -quote from man who is definitely not okay.
> 
> I’m actually posting on time this week! Good job, me!
> 
> God, I love McJones’s voice. It’s just so sweet and gentle, and I kinda want him to narrate my life, man. Also, the internet informs me that the kind of lisp he has is called a _strident lisp_ , so that’s kinda neat. From Wikipedia: “A strident lisp results in a high frequency whistle of hissing sound caused by stream passing between the tongue and the hard surface.”
> 
> also uhhhh I just have to admit that I kinda sorta have a partially written mcjones/dodger thing lying around on my computer. I’m 100% sure I’m the first person to ever consider that pairing, but I can’t help myself
> 
> See you Friday!


	6. Part Six

###### Part Six

Dean’s roused the next morning by the sun shining directly into his eyes. He opens them a crack to find that the manmade wall at the entrance of their cave has been completely dismantled. Grumpily, he sits up and looks around the room, stretching his arms over his head. McJones is nowhere to be found, but Dodger’s sitting on the furnace and chewing a slice of bread, while Chad is busy chopping planks into sticks.

“Mornin’,” Dodger says when she sees Dean, tipping her bread at him.

“Hey. Where’s McJones?”

“He had to go answer nature’s call, I think,” Chad interjects.

Dean snorts out a laugh. “Ah.”

And speak of the devil—right at that moment, McJones comes gliding back into the cave in the midst of refastening his belt. He offers Dean a slight nod of acknowledgement and starts towards the crafting table, but before he can turn away, Dean speaks up:

“Dude, I told you I don’t roll.”

“Hm?” McJones asks with a cursory glance.

Dean lifts his chin. “I didn’t roll on top of you and crush you in my sleep like you said I would.”

“Oh. Yeah. Guess not.”

He gives a tight half-smile that doesn’t reach the rest of his face and literally nothing more. There’s no trace of the McJones from the middle of the night. The McJones with soft, gentle eyes. The McJones who actually kinda, y’know, _cared_.

Damn. So much for their truce, then.

Well, it was nice while it lasted. Mega rip. Dean sighs, heavy, and then stands up to get on with his day.

The four of them eat quickly and set to work repacking their bags. “Make sure you use the furnace and crafting table now if you need to,” McJones tells them, as commanding as always. “And don’t bother taking your mats, ‘cause we’ll just back here tonight.”

“We will?” says Chad, who’s already begun to gather up his sleeping mat.

“Yeah. My hope is that we’ll climb the mountain, deal with Todd’s crap, grab the potions, and get back down here before nighttime. It’s still early, so we should have plenty of time.”

When they’re all ready to go, they step out of the cave and back into the field. It’s yet another scorcher. A handful of rotting zombie corpses are scattered there in the grass, having been burned to a toasty crisp by the sun. At least the fucking sunlight is good for something besides waking Dean up at the ass crack of dawn and making him sweat buckets.

Then, as Dean stands there, he begins to notice this weird tingle in the air. An electric buzz on the wind. And it only takes him a moment to locate the source: Although the sky right overhead is bright and clear, there’s a cluster of dark, ominous-looking clouds looming off in the distance. McJones sees them at the same time Dean does, and he huffs out a frustrated breath.

“Aw, piss,” he mutters, forehead wrinkling in that way it does when he’s thinking. “Well, that makes things a little harder. I guess—” he presses his fist to his mouth, “—we really should try to beat that storm, ‘cause this mountain’ll probably be insanely slippery in the rain. Plus, if there’s a lot of loose dirt or rock, we could get caught in a landslide.” He shrugs, resigned. “So we’ll just hurry up even more, then. There’s really nothing else that can be done about it. Waiting another day isn’t an option.”

“Man, our luck is really turning,” Chad remarks in agreement.

“Let’s hope not.” McJones shakes his head. “With us, bad luck is more than just minor inconveniences, y’know; it’s death.”

Dodger and Chad blink at him, startled, and Dean groans inwardly. _Way to go, McJones_ , he thinks. Way to inspire the newbies and give them such a _strong_ sense of hope for the future. What a terrific and morale-boosting leader he is. Fucking unbelievable.

And then, they start their journey up the mountain. As much as McJones tries to get them to move quickly, it’s very slow-going. The path—if it can even be called that—is kind of shit. It’s patchy with scree and spotted with small bits of tough shrubbery that somehow manage to trip Dean every time he tries to step over them. And even though it winds around and around the mountain in a spiral towards the peak, it’s still obnoxiously steep. That, coupled with the poor terrain, means they have to be super fucking careful lest they slip and roll an ankle or something. By the end of hour one, Dean’s calves and thighs are already burning, but it feels like they’ve barely gotten anywhere. Not to mention the miserable temperatures and utter lack of available shade. It’s gonna be a long fucking day.

Dodger actually doesn’t seem to mind the situation, though. Despite the fact that she looks as overheated and out of breath as the rest of them, she’s got this huge grin stuck on her face, and she’s just _exuding_ energy as she tromps up the path. 

“This is fucking awesome!” she cries to no one in particular. “I’ve always wanted to climb a real mountain!”

Her enthusiasm helps distract Dean a little bit, and as he talks amicably back and forth with her, he almost forgets that there’s a stabbing stitch in his side and his legs feel like they’re about to fall off. Almost.

Not long after that, they start to notice that Todd’s around, which is always a sure sign that they’re headed at least somewhat in the right direction. They see him out of the corners of their eyes every so often, just watching them from a faraway perch in the air. But whenever any of them turns to look at him full-on, he vanishes so quickly that they’re left wondering if he was ever really there in the first place. Sly asshole. What Dean wouldn’t give to be able to fly like him right now.

Todd’s actually cool, though. Dean’s been abducted by him a couple times, and they were all very pleasant experiences. He brought Dean to this crazy palace-thing plopped right in the middle of a sizzling lava lake, and the two of them just hung out there and chatted for a good half an hour. Once you get past the echoing voice and shadowy visage, turns out he’s a pretty chill guy. He’s got a bubbly laugh and a sharp wit that Dean can’t help but like. Hopefully he’ll kidnap Dean again sometime soon so they can catch up.

Somewhere around hour number two, the four of them finally stop to take a quick break. They’re a little under halfway to the summit by now, and the path has done a complete 180 around the mountain so that they’re now standing on its opposite side. This gives them an unobstructed view of the rest of the mountain range, and after nearly drowning himself guzzling from his water canteen, Dean takes the opportunity to look out at the scenery.

And—it’s shocking, in a way. He knew there were more mountains here than just the one they’re on, sure. But he didn’t really _know_. He didn’t know how impressive the sight would be. He didn’t know how his breath would catch when he took them in, all those peaks stretching towards the sky in unison, tinted gray by the mist and clouds. He didn’t know how they would touch and twist something deep inside of him.

As he stands there and just stares, this weird sense of longing rises up in his chest, this innate homesickness for something he never had. It’s seems astonishing that so many mountains should be allowed to exist in one place, so much natural wonder for a single piece of land. It’s beautiful in a way that Dean really can’t put words to, and it makes his eyes fill up a little.

“Hey, are you coming?” Dodger shouts over to him, shaking him out of his mushy reverie. He realizes that the other three have already resumed walking, and they’re several strides away by now. He jogs to catch up, stumbling a little on an unfortunately-placed rock.

“Yeah, sorry. Just lookin’.”

The brief respite makes Dean’s legs feel better, but only for a bit. Soon enough, they’re aching like hell all over again, especially around the spot where he got shot yesterday.

“Je _sus_. Didn’t y’all say that Todd called this the _path of sorrow_ or whatever? ‘Cause I think I know why. My feet are _crying_ , dude,” he groans, dragging his fingers through his hair in a halfhearted attempt to get it off of his forehead. This earns him a laugh from Dodger, although it’s laced with sympathy.

Squinting, he eyes McJones, walking a few steps ahead of them. McJones hasn’t strayed from his place at the head of the pack since they started climbing. Chad trotted alongside him for a stretch so they could discuss Todd’s clues some more, but he’s since hung back to join up with Dean and Dodger, leaving McJones alone in front like some kind of captain leading his army. Dean’s been quite enjoying that because it gives him an unrivaled and uninterrupted view of McJones’s thighs. And goddamn, does McJones have some weirdly nice thighs. _Va-va-voom_.

“Hey, McJones, how much longer do you think it’ll be?” Dean calls then, his hands cupped around his mouth. He can barely talk through his heaving breaths. Christ, even though they spend half their days sprinting away from monsters, he’s still so embarrassingly out of shape.

“I don’t know,” McJones replies shortly.

“What? I thought you—”

“Dean.” McJones slows, twisting around to scowl at him. “You know as much as I do: We’re getting to the top of this mountain no matter what. How long it takes is irrelevant.”

“But my legs are fucking killing me, dude. I need to know how long I’m going to be in agony for.”

McJones runs his palm down his face, muttering something muffled that could be the F-bomb but probably isn’t, considering the worst Dean’s ever heard him cuss was that one time he called PBG _dipshit_. Well, actually, that’s happened a lot more than one time, but still.

Finally, he sighs. “Okay. Alright,” he says. “If you really need another break, we’ll take one. But try to hold out for a while longer. And don’t ask me again how long it’ll be, because I genuinely have no idea.”

“Fine.” Dean reaches down to massage his ankle. “But I just wanna say, mountaineering sucks _dick_.”

And maybe it’s just his imagination, but McJones’s frown seems to wane just a little at that. But before Dean can get a good look, McJones turns his back and starts plodding along the trail once more.

Then, Dodger bumps her arm against Dean’s. “Hey, screw you, I _like_ mountaineering.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like you,” Dean throws back, and then they both snicker. Honestly, it’s a good fucking thing Dean has Dodger to talk to, because he’s pretty sure he might lose his mind on this mountain otherwise. There’s just so much nothing, and there was so much nothing for all of yesterday too. This has been one of Todd’s most boring quests to date. Those damn potions better be, like, god-tier to make this worth it.

That being said, aside from ogling McJones and shooting the shit with Dodger, Dean’s also got the gorgeous landscape to entertain him. But once they hit the final third of the climb, the clouds hovering around the tip of the mountain start to interfere with visibility, and before long, the four of them are completely surrounded by a cloak of hazy whiteness. At the very worst of it, they can’t see more than ten feet in front of their stupid noses. But they keep on walking, going up and up and around and around for what feels like a thousand centuries until suddenly they’re there, bursting out of the clouds and onto the peak of the mountain.

“Thank _fuck!_ ” Dean yells as soon as he steps off that godforsaken path, and a collective sigh of relief sweeps through the group.

“I can’t believe we actually made it,” Chad says wearily, rubbing his eyes. “I was starting to think we were in frickin’ limbo or something. I couldn’t see _anything_ back there.”

“Yeah, honestly, I’m about ready to go back to bed after all that,” McJones adds with an undignified snort.

Dean sinks heavily to his knees and flops backwards, breaking into crazed laughter. “That was the fucking _worst!_ I’m so glad we’re done with that shit. God, I could actually kiss this sweet, sweet ground right now.”

“Don’t forget we still have to get all the way back down today, though.”

“Shut the fuck up, McJones, I hate you so much. Don’t even talk to me right now. I’m dead. Rip in pieces, me.”

“But heading back should be easier, ‘cause we’ll be going downhill instead of up,” Chad points out.

“True,” McJones acknowledges. “And it’ll be faster, too.”

Dean doesn’t know exactly what time it is—the sun is entirely hidden behind the thick clouds—but the rumble of his stomach tells him it’s probably around noon. Standing up, he roots around in his bag and produces a half of a pork chop to eat. As he stands there and chomps away on it, he takes a look around.

The peak of the mountain is small, an island in the middle of a sea of low-hanging clouds. Its surface is rocky in contrast to the rest of the mountain, but it’s flat enough that Dean the others can walk around without trouble. The rock itself is a dull shade of gray, and it’s roughed up in places from age and weather.

And also, it’s very noticeably barren.

Dodger raises a finger, the very same thought occurring to her. “...So’s there supposed to be a cave here or something?” she asks.

“Um.”

McJones scratches his mustache and stands there uncomfortably.

“Oh my god.” Dean buries his face in his hands. “Don’t—don’t fucking tell me we were wrong. We were supposed to climb one of the _other_ five hundred mountains out there, weren’t we? Fuck me, dude, we spent all that time—”

“Wait, no, look at the ground!” Chad exclaims, cutting him off.

He points frantically to a spot a few feet away from where he’s standing. It takes Dean a second to pick out what he’s supposed to be seeing, but once he does, it’s suddenly so obvious that he doesn’t know how the hell they ever missed it: Right there, smack-dab in the middle of the rock, is a large swath of painted eyes.

“…Oh. Well, that’s relieving,” McJones says, blinking and giving a nonplussed smile. “This is exactly what Todd said to look for. _The eyes of the ancient warriors_ , is what he wrote, right?”

Dean saunters over to stand beside Chad, and he scuffs his foot over one of the paintings experimentally. They’re simplistically drawn—just small ovals inside of almonds with a couple of straight lines for eyelashes—and their rusty-red color is faded, as if they’ve been here almost as long as the mountain itself has.

Chad frowns down at them, rubbing his cheek with the heel of his hand. “But the book said we’re supposed to ask the warriors about their secrets, whatever the frick that means.”

Maybe Dean should’ve reread Todd’s book to give himself a refresher on the details of their quest, ‘cause he has no idea what the hell Chad and McJones are talking about. Hopefully his ignorance doesn’t bite him in the ass later.

McJones ponders Chad’s words for a moment. Finally, he raises his eyebrows.

“Then consider this a question,” he responds. And he lifts his pickaxe and drives it directly into the pupil of one of the eyes.

The effect is instantaneous. Almost before he can wrench his pick back out, a ragged lattice of hairline cracks splits through the ground like a thousand lightning bolts. The four of them jump back just as the circle of painted stone crumbles away with a deep roar that Dean feels in his bones. And the dust from the cave-in slowly settles to reveal a gaping hole with a stone staircase leading down inside.

Dean’s mouth is hanging slack. “Holy fuck,” he breathes, mentally retracting everything he ever thought about this quest being lame, because _the whole fucking mountain was hollow this entire time_. Plot twist of the century.

“Well, there we go,” McJones says after a second. “Everyone good on food?” When he’s met with nods, he peers into the darkness. “Let’s do this, then. Anyone have a torch ready?”

“I got it,” Dodger replies, already pulling a stick from her bag. But when she lights it, the flame gives a weak cough of a flicker and then winks right out, leaving only a small trail of smoke curling upwards. She tries once more, brow furrowing in concentration, only for the same thing to happen again. “Uh, shit,” she mumbles, growing flustered. “I—I guess this is a bad stick or someth—”

“No, it’s not you,” Dean cuts in flatly. “It’s Todd. He does this to us sometimes. Fuckin’—I dunno—does _voodoo magic_ on the place we need to be so we have to wander around blind.”

Then, he whirls out towards the edge of the mountain peak. “Hey, Todd!” he screams into the clouds. “If you’re listening, you can go eat a dick!”

And he’s pretty sure he hears a faint, resonating laugh alight on the wind in answer.

McJones doesn’t seem at all fazed by their inability to use torches, though. Without even a glimmer of hesitation, he steps down onto the first stair of the stone flight, testing his weight on it with a small hop. “C’mon, it’s fine,” he says. “I’ll go in first, and y’all can follow me single-file.”

He’s fearless as fuck sometimes. Dean secretly really admires that about him.

The newbies share a wary glance before following McJones, and Dean trots after them to take up the back once more. He and McJones seem to have separately come to the same conclusion that the safest formation for them all to be in is a newbie sandwich. Or maybe McJones is just trying to stay as far away from him as possible. Probably a little of both, Dean thinks.

As they begin their descent, they’re quickly engulfed by blackness. Although they leave the entrance to the cavern wide open, the light from outside can only reach so far, and it takes just a few minutes for Dean to not even be able make out his own hand in front of his face anymore. The stairs themselves are narrow—barely wide enough for a single person to fit across—and steep, spiraling around so many times that Dean actually starts to get dizzy. So they take it slow, feeling their way down step by step, gripping the stone wall beside them for safety.

The four of them are largely quiet—they’re too intensely focused on making sure they don’t tumble down the stairs like a bunch of Slinkies. The only sound comes from McJones occasionally calling out warnings of a broken step or a particularly slippery spot on the wall. Every muscle in Dean’s body is tightened as he makes his way down, and his lack of vision makes his remaining senses feel sharper than usual. He can feel the slight notches in the stone under his fingers, hear the soft _whoosh_ of his comrades’ breathing, smell the heavy mustiness of the air. And with every step, he half-expects to find only empty space beneath him and go plummeting to the bottom of this god-knows-how-deep mountain cave.

First the pitch-black forest, then the pea soup clouds, and now this? This is the adventure of not being able to fucking see. It’s giving Dean a brand-new appreciation of just how nice the gift of sight is. Without his eyes, he’s left completely at the mercy of the world around him.

Many long minutes pass. The stairs are starting to feel kind of endless at this point, and Dean’s legs are getting wobblier and wobblier from a combination of nerves and tension. Sweat’s beading on the bridge of his nose, making his glasses slip down a little more with every step. He moves to shove them back up, but then he thinks, _What’s the damn point?_ and just lets them be.

Finally, at long last, Dean hears one set of footsteps drop off, and from up ahead, McJones’s voice goes, “Okay, I think we’re at the bottom now.”

“Thank god,” Chad sighs. “Man, how far down are we right now?”

“No idea. Definitely not all the way back at ground-level, though.”

Dean clears the last few stairs tentatively, reaching out his foot to test each one. But once he feels the floor level off beneath him, he lets himself relax, rolling out his back with a string of _pops_. “So now what, McJones?”

“I’m not quite sure. The potions might be in a chest here somewhere, so we might as well check around for that first.”

“What, you mean like wander around in the dark until we find something?”

“Do you have a better idea?” McJones snaps, his voice echoing.

After a moment, there comes the sound of receding footfalls that Dean would guess probably belong to Chad or Dodger. His head swivels back and forth across the room—or what he presumes is a room, anyway. He still can’t see a damn thing, but his eyes are starting to play tricks on him, drawing up fuzzy patterns in the darkness that aren’t really there. Lucah talked about this one time, he remembers. He can’t recall what exactly she said, but it was something about how being somewhere with zero percent light for too long can make you go blind, because your brain is trying so hard to see _anything_ that your eyeballs just get fried. At the time, Dean was pretty sure that was a load of bull, but now that he’s actually experiencing the impossible darkness Lucah was describing, it doesn’t seem so farfetched. His complete inability to pick out a single detail of his surroundings is already making his eyes feel funny, especially now that he doesn’t even have a wall to hang onto for safety anymore.

And then, out of nowhere, McJones slams into him.

Dean feels the jolting crash of McJones’s back against his chest, the jab of an elbow digging into his stomach. He grunts from the sudden force of it, and McJones instantly stiffens against him, making this little, surprised noise in the back of his throat. Dean has barely enough time to notice how _hot_ McJones is to the touch—he’s like a fucking furnace—before he jerks away.  

“Ooh, sorry, Chad,” he mutters quickly, sounding embarrassed, and Dean hears the nervous patter of his boots against the stone as he scuttles off.

“What?” says Chad, his voice coming distinctly from the other side of the cave.

Dean coughs kinda hoarsely. “No, that was me.” Then, pointlessly, he tacks on, “Dean.”

“Oh.” McJones is quiet. “Sorry.”

“Y-you’re good, dude. It’s dark as hell down here.”                   

Exhaling, Dean slides a palm over the back of his neck. Then, he begins to shuffle forward, step by step, hoping to find something to grab onto in order to reorient himself. He holds out his arms like a zombie as he moves so he doesn’t smack face-first into anything—or any _one—_ else. He’s pretty sure he looks ridiculous, but since no one can see him, he doesn’t give a shit. Except this strategy of his completely overlooks the matter of his feet, and he ends up accidentally kicking the bottom stair full-force, which then leads to a bunch of loud cursing and hopping around in pain.

Suddenly, Dodger gasps. “You guys,” she says urgently, “there’s another eye here, on the wall.”

“Wait, wait, what the fuck, how can you even see anything?” Dean demands, spinning in what he thinks is her direction.

“I can’t see, but I can _feel_ that it’s chiseled on the wall. And it’s definitely the same as the ones that were painted outside.” She rustles around for a moment. “I’m gonna try mining it like McJones did up top.”

“Be careful,” McJones warns her.

“I will.”

There comes the sound of iron striking stone, followed by bits of pebble plinking against the ground. As she chips away at the wall, Dean slowly begins to notice the barest, faintest rays of light filtering from between the rock. And just a few seconds later, Dodger lets out a soaring, triumphant cry.

“There it is!” she yells, the sound reverberating through the cavern. “I found the treasure chest! There’s a fucking hidden room in there!”

“Holy shit, there is?” Dean says, and he rushes forward, forgetting his surroundings and banging his other foot on the exact same step as before. “ _Motherfucker!_ ”

Around him, he can hear McJones and Chad hurrying over to Dodger too, but she doesn’t bother to wait for them to reach her. With a crunch, she knocks a wide hole in the wall, and the resulting spill of light into the cavern is like salve for Dean’s desperate eyes. He can see her silhouette kicking aside a couple of large rocks before ducking through the hole and scampering off into the secret room she’s unveiled.

Her words float back from inside: “This is awesome, you guys! C’mere, we did it, we found the potions! There’s a chest—”

A heavy pause.

“— _Fuck!_ ”

Her scream ricochets through the air. In an instant, the other three are at the entrance to the hidden room, stumbling into each other in a panic. They duck down to squeeze through the Dodger-sized hole and find themselves in a short, narrow passageway. A few running steps, and they plunge into a small room. Dean has just a brief, panicked beat to survey the scene. At the front of the room is a low, flat pedestal made of what looks like marble, upon which a chest is sitting. There’s a torch hanging to either side of the chest, creating just enough light to cast harsh, trippy shadows all around.

And converging onto Dodger in the very center of the room is a horde of zombies, each of them armed with gold swords.

“ _Woah!”_ McJones shouts, which is a sentiment Dean very much agrees with. Drawing his sword in a flash of adrenaline, Dean launches himself at the nearest one. He slices it through the neck once, twice, and then it’s dead, collapsing to the ground in a heap. He pays it no mind, though; the other zombies have begun to notice what’s going on, and a good chunk of them have broken away from Dodger in favor of the newcomers. Good.

Eyes narrowing, Dean advances, and McJones and Chad are right beside him. Together, they hack their way through necrotic flesh, stabbing forth and dancing back to avoid retaliation strikes. The zombies are too stupid to actually swordfight, but their brainless slashes still hurt like a bitch. One of them catches Dean just beneath his chestplate, and he yelps at the sharp sting and turns on it, stabbing his blade through the center of its abdomen.

Then, as he moves to parry another swing, he notices that Dodger’s managed to bust free of the horde and is now fighting alongside the rest of them. One zombie swings its sword towards her stomach, but she sidesteps and cuts it across the face. She looks to be okay, aside from the fact that her vest is torn on the side and her hands are spattered with zombie blood.

Just as Dean’s trying to get a better glimpse at her, another zombie comes up on him from behind. But when he pivots to lunge at it, a second rushes in from the opposite side, and he ends up backed against the wall. Not a good position to be in at all.

“Shit, shit, _shit,_ I’m cornered!” he yells, throat tightening. “I need help!”

The second zombie’s sword slams forcefully into Dean’s shield. Head rattling, he aims an answering swing at it. But right as he lifts his arm, the first zombie drives its own sword deep into his bicep with a _slurch_. He chokes, and fire roars down his nerves so sharply that everything blurs. But he sucks in a tight breath, grits his teeth, and stabs through the side of the other zombie with all he has. It’s stunned, thrown back from the force of the hit, but not for long. Growling, it comes back at him seconds later, missing his jugular by barely an inch. The second zombie’s still on his ass too, landing another forceful hit against his shield and sending bits of wood splintering off. Dean tries to battering-ram it out of his way, but then the other one catches him _again_ , gashing across the back of his hand all the way up to his wrist.

Blood streams through his fingers, his grip going slick and unsteady. He tries to recover with a quick, upwards strike, but holy _fuck_ , his arm hurts. He reels in pain, heaving, just barely catching himself in time to deflect another hit. But one of the zombies’ blades digs into his thigh on the downswing.

And for a moment, his vision tunnels. Spots swarm in front of his eyes.

“I’m gonna die, I’m gonna _die!_ ” he cries. His breath is loud, labored. His arm is splitting in half, the muscle incinerated with agony. Every crash of a golden sword against his shield knocks a little bit more strength out of him. He’s losing it. He’s fading fast.

But his back is still pressed against the wall. There’s nowhere for him to go.

No way for him to escape.

“ _Dean!_ ”

A shout, and Chad bursts from out of nowhere. Plunging his sword down, he cleaves one of the zombie’s heads almost in two. It crumples instantly beneath him. And then he’s springing towards the other, drawing it away from Dean.

 _An opening_.

Gasping for breath, Dean trips away on shaky legs. His head swims as he digs into his bag for something— _anything_ —to eat. He finds an apple and shoves it into his mouth, biting hard. The juice runs down his chin, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.

He eats frantically, desperately, focused on nothing but the food in his mouth. Little by little, his pulse begins to calm. His vision brightens. The blood seeping from his wounds slows. And finally, relief unties the knot around his throat. He sits back, wiping sweat from his forehead with a trembling fist.

Having killed the other zombie, Chad rushes over to him. “Oh my god, are you okay?” he asks, his blue eyes wide behind his glasses.

“Jesus, dude, I was _one_ fucking hit away from death,” Dean says heavily. He licks a lingering trickle of blood from his knuckles. “I’m good now though. Thanks.”

Looking around, he then notices that all of the zombies have been successfully slain. Their corpses litter the room, still leaking blood all over the ground. Zombies don’t bleed the same way humans do; instead of liquidy blood, they have this dark, rotten _ooze_ that leaks thickly from their wounds even long after their deaths, staining everything it touches. It’s disgusting.

Right then, Dodger and McJones come hurrying over from the other side of the room, and Dean stands up next to Chad to meet them.

“Fuck, you guys saved my _ass_ ,” Dodger blurts as the two of them approach. “I woulda been a goner without you. Thank you so much. I wasn’t ready for that at all.”

“Dodger, you gave me a fucking heart attack!” Dean wheezes, clutching at his chest. He damn near passed out from sheer dread when he saw Dodger surrounded like that. “Do—do you need food or anything? Holy shit. Ho- _lee_ shit. My poor heart can’t take this.”

“No, I’m alright. I mean—” she inspects the rip in her bodice and shirt, and Dean notices that the bare skin beneath is punctured, “—I got stabbed a little. Not badly though. It’ll be okay.” But even still, she’s wincing, her jaw clenched tight.

“This is exactly why I told y’all to be careful!” McJones bursts out, startling everyone. “We already knew there were going to be zombies! If you’d just waited, we could’ve made a plan, and then things would’ve been way less dangerous! _Any_ of us could’ve died right there!”

Instantly, Dodger flushes bright red. “I know, I’m really sorry,” she mumbles, her voice drooping with shame. “I—I just got excited when I saw the room in here. But you’re right, I totally should’ve waited for you guys. I’m sorry. I really fucked this up.”

And McJones actually seems a little startled by her reply, based on the way that he draws his shoulders in. He’s probably not used to his scoldings being met with actual apologies. Plus, Sad Dodger is kinda breaking Dean’s heart right now, and he’d bet anything that McJones feels the same way. She’s just so _small_ and _enchanting_ and _jubilant_ ; it’s kinda impossible to be mad at her when she tries so hard all the time.

After a moment, McJones shakes his head. “...You’re alright, Dodger,” he says, low. “Just try to not be so hasty next time. It’s dangerous here.”

The kindness—the _forgiveness_ —behind McJones’s words strikes Dean in the tenderest part of his chest. As he watches Dodger nod once in rueful agreement, a self-hating kind of envy coils within him. If only McJones offered him even a fraction of that same forgiveness. But then again, he thinks as he looks down at his blood-soaked boots, it’s apples to oranges; this situation isn’t even remotely comparable to what happened in the mineshaft.

Chad too needs to have something to eat to heal himself up, so the others wait around for him as he nibbles on a hunk of bread. In the meantime, Dean inspects the wound on his arm, carefully clamping his hand around it in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. It wasn’t as deep as it felt, though, so he’s not overly concerned. It should heal pretty quickly, even without a bandage.

Finally, once Chad's polished off his bread, McJones angles his head in the direction of the chest.

“Now,” he says, “let’s get what we came here for.”

The four of them step onto the flat pedestal and crowd around the chest, a reverent hush falling over them. Nimbly, McJones undoes the clasp, and he then offers a silence glance towards Dean. Dean lifts his chin in understanding, and together, they hook their fingers beneath the lid of the chest and heave it open.

And there they are.

The potions. Seven glass bottles arranged in a perfect circle at the bottom of the chest.

“Oh, Todd, you beautiful, beautiful wizard,” Dean breathes. “You came through for us.”

“Holy crap,” Chad whispers.

McJones leans forward on his haunches, peering down into the chest. “Alright, lemme see what we’ve got here.” He reaches in and pulls the potions out one by one, naming them as he goes: “That’s a fire resistance, and so’s that one too. This here’s healing. This is, uh, weakness, I think. This is regeneration. That’s probably slowness. And this is—hm.”

McJones grabs the last potion and holds it up to the light, squinting at it. The liquid inside is a bright, neon green color, and just like the others, it’s giving off a faint glow. Frowning, he pushes the cork back a sliver, brings the lip of the bottle to his nose, and takes a long sniff. Immediately, his face scrunches up. “ _Ugh_ ,” he grunts. “Oh, yeah, that’s a potion of leaping. _Definitely_ leaping. Hoo boy.”

The other three stare at him blankly. The corner of his mouth lifts into half-smile. “Here, smell for yourself.”

He holds out the bottle to Dodger first, and she throws him a suspicious look before complying. As soon as she leans into it, her mouth twists, and she chokes a little bit. Quickly, she passes it to Chad, who reacts similarly. When the bottle gets to Dean, he takes a tentative inhale. His nose is instantly assaulted by an overwhelming, vinegary smell, and he jerks back with a cough. McJones’s smile widens, his cheekbones popping out.

“Distinctive, huh?” he remarks.

“Yeah. Shit.” Dean shakes his head and hands the potion back to McJones. He sets it down where he’s arranged the rest of them in a neat line on the pedestal.

“Oh, cool, there’s one for each of us,” Dodger points out, and McJones nods faintly in response.

“Well, I guess that’s it, then,” he says after a moment. “We can get the heck out of here. Bringing these back home safely is going to be a bit of a problem, though. We should split ‘em between the four of us so that if one of us dies in a way that makes our stuff irretrievable, we don’t lose everything we’ve worked for.”

“Good idea,” Chad agrees. “How ‘bout we each take two, and then one of us just takes one? Seven divided by four—I guess that’s as even as it’ll get.” He moves to grab one of the potions, but McJones holds out a hand to stop him.

“Now, hold on a sec. If you think about it, it would be better if none of us was carrying more than one really useful potion; we don’t want to put all of our eggs in one basket, as they say. So let’s be strategic here.”

“Oh my _god_ , McJones, we don’t have time for this,” Dean groans.

“Sure we do.” McJones rubs his jaw thoughtfully. “Let’s see, if someone takes the regen potion and the leaping potion...”

So they spend a fucking while figuring that shit out, because McJones gets off on over-planning the hell out of everything they do. Probably literally, too. But they eventually get everything settled, and Dean winds up being designated official protector of the slowness potion and one of the two fire resistance potions. McJones, coincidentally, ends up with the other, which leads Dean to _almost_ say something about them twinning or being linked by fate or something, but he’s not in the mood to be shot down right now. And also, he keeps hearing Barry’s dumb voice in his head accusing him of always saying super gay shit to McJones, and he really doesn’t want Barry to be right about anything else. Stupid Barry and his annoyingly accurate evaluations.

Then, Chad has the brilliant idea to pluck the two torches off the wall behind the chest and take them with, suggesting that just because they can’t _make_ torches doesn’t mean they can’t _use_ them. And apparently this is the exact kind of tricky logic Todd’s going for, because the flames hold strong as they head back out into the main cavern and start up the winding staircase once more. Emboldened by the light, they take the steps two and even three at a time, and they emerge from within the mountain in a fraction of the time it took them to descend.

They spill out onto the mountaintop triumphantly, exchanging wild grins with each other. Looking up into the sky, they see that the dark, billowing forms of the storm clouds McJones pointed out earlier are finally starting to catch up to them. The rain itself hasn’t come yet, but there’s a forceful gale pushing at their clothes and hair, and the darkening air tastes sharp with the promise of thunder. But the low clouds that were swirling all around them before have now completely dissipated. For the first time since the four of them reached the summit of this mountain, their view of the land below is completely unimpeded.

And fuck, it’s an incredible view.

From where they are, Dean can see absolutely _everything_. The oceans of grass they tromped through, flowing like waves in the wind. The densely clustered forest that felt eternal when they were in the midst of it but now might as well be a mere handful of twigs. The hazy stretch of mountains behind them, reminding them that there’s still so much more to see. All of it, right there for their eyes’ taking. And Dean thinks, that same, tugging feeling from before welling up in him, this has got to be one of the most beautiful places they’ve ever lived. _Ever_. They’ll have to leave it eventually, sure, but for now, it’s theirs. It belongs to them, and they belong to it. It’s their home, and right now, he can’t imagine anywhere else he’d rather be.

Slowly, McJones extends a finger out into the air. “Hey,” he starts, his voice serene, “look. There’s our house.”

Dean squints in the direction of his hand, pointing far, far off into the distance. And sure enough, there it is, just a tiny, glowing dot on the horizon. A single, manmade structure in a vast expanse of nature. Carefully, he inches closer to the edge of the precipice. “Oh shit, I see it.”

“Woah, me too! I wonder what everyone else is doing down there,” Dodger says.

McJones laughs. “Probably something stupid, honestly. At least we know the house is still standing.”

“It’s so small,” Dean murmurs, awestruck. “Like, there’s this whole big world out there, but we live and eat and sleep and everything just in that tiny little area.”

“ _When you look back upon your home, it will be no more than a speck of dirt on the ground_ ,” McJones replies.

“What?”

“Just quoting Todd.”

“Oh.”

Dean looks over at McJones for a moment, studying the lines and curves of his face. But when he notices Dean staring and catches his gaze, Dean’s eyes snap back away.

Honestly, Dean thought this whole _being-absolutely-fucking-taken-with-McJones_ thing was kinda like what happened with Ray, but it’s becoming increasingly obvious that that’s not true. Because, quite simply, Ray was a newbie. And just like every other newbie that’s ever come their way, he probably wasn’t going to be around forever. In all likelihood, his death would spell the permanent end of his adventures with them. Whether he and Dean liked it or not, their time together was limited. Which meant that there was less of a risk of screwing things up.

Of course, that’s not to say Dean didn’t care about Ray or the thing they had going on together, because he did. A lot. Ray was fucking awesome. He got every single one of Dean’s weird jokes and cracked ones of his own and was just generally great to be around. He’s one of Dean’s all-time favorite newbies, right up there with Lucah. Sucks so hard that he’ll probably never be back. Dean still gets sad whenever he stumbles across patches of wild poppies.

But the point is, their fling was just that—a _fling_. It couldn’t possibly be a _committed_ kind of deal, and they both knew it; they even explicitly discussed it when they were first getting involved with each other. Just by nature, it wasn’t meant to last, and so there wouldn’t be any permanent consequences if things got all fucked up.

But none of that’s the case with McJones. He’s a regular, not a newbie, and that distinction means everything. He’s going to be around indefinitely—at least, as far as they know. So if Dean screws the pooch here—if he forgets himself and makes a move on McJones, or even if he just admits the truth to someone else, and they then spill the beans to McJones like a total narc scrub—he could make things really fucking uncomfortable between the two of them for a long, _long_ time. Not that things aren’t already really fucking uncomfortable. But a fuckup along those lines would cement the uncomfortableness as a permanent state. As their new reality. He and McJones could never go back to being adventure boys together, because how do you just ignore unrequited feelings like that? You don’t, that’s how. It would be so awkward and so terrible, and Dean can’t let it happen under any circumstances.

Basically, what it boils down to is, there’s a reason people say _don’t dip your pen in company ink_.

…But damn, would he _ever_ love to dip his pen in McJones’s company ink. In spite of everything, Dean smirks wryly to himself.

Dodger notices right away and elbows him. “Dude, whatcha smiling at?”

“Ah, nothing,” he says, waving off her prying look. “Don’t worry about it.”

The four of them stand there for a few more minutes, clustered together on the mountain cliff. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees a split-second flash of lightning from just beyond the hills, and a couple Mississippis later, there comes the responding growl of thunder. The wind blows harder, gusting over the prairie with a low _shhhhh_. They really oughta hurry—at this rate, they’re almost definitely going to get caught in a downpour. And up here, this close to the sky, they’re pretty much human lightning rods. But there’s no sense of urgency in any of them; right now, all they feel is peace.

“…Hey, you guys?”

 Chad’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet. The others turn to him curiously, and they find him looking back at them with shining eyes.

“This is probably stupid or whatever, but I just wanna say thanks,” he says, sliding his fingers through his hair. “Thanks for bringing me along on all your adventures. This is honestly the craziest thing that I’ve ever done. I mean, what, we just climbed a frickin’ mountain to get some wizard dude’s potions that were hidden in a cave, and now we’re gonna bring ‘em back to our house in the middle of nowhere so we can use ‘em when we go to a different dimension? That’s absolutely insane. I...I still barely understand what the heck is even happening, honestly.”

 He gives a wet, buoyant laugh at himself and then drops off into a brief pause. A handful of seconds slip by before he begins again:

“But honestly, I’m so happy. I love this—this thing you guys’ve got going on, whatever it is. I’m not exaggerating when I say I wake up every morning excited to see what kind of crazy stuff we’re gonna do next. And all of you have been so nice to me too, and you’ve helped me learn and never let me fall behind and—and—” his voice breaks a little, and he sniffs, “—just—thank you for everything. I’m so glad I’ve gotten to know you guys. Let’s keep kicking butt out there.”

And he gives them the biggest, brightest, most genuine smile, the kind that comes straight from the heart.

A surprised hush falls over the group. None of the others quite know how to respond to something so sincere. But even if Dean did have an idea of what to say, he wouldn’t be able to get the words out around the choked-up lump in his throat. And McJones and Dodger seem to be equally verklempt, judging by the looks on their faces. They’re just so touched, the three of them. They’re honestly, genuinely, deeply touched.

Dodger’s the first one to break the silence. “Dude,” she says softly, “that was poetic.”

“Ha. Thanks.” Chad rubs the back of his neck.

“I’m right there with you: Being here is crazy awesome. I love it just as much as you do. And we _are_ kicking butt, especially me and you.” Dodger holds out her arms. “I mean, we’re the new ones here, but look at all we’ve accomplished. We’re—we’re doing this shit! We’re winning at life!”

She leans forward and thrusts out her fist. A grin snakes across her face as Chad bumps his knuckles against hers. “Fuck yeah!” she cries, growing loud with excitement. “Survival of the newbies, baby!”

Then, she throws her head back and her hands skyward, and she just _shouts_. Shouts up and out, letting her voice roll across the sprawling prairie like the wind blustering around them. It’s a raw, beautiful sound, long and loud and triumphant and filled with pure joy like nothing Dean’s ever heard. And, after the span of a single instant, Chad cups his hands around his mouth and does the very same.

 And with that, the two of them just go wild. Dancing around like fools together on the rock, whooping and hollering with sheer exhilaration. It’s like something’s burst open inside of them, the last, lingering threads of hesitance ripped free from their hearts and hurled into the wind. They let loose and give it all they’ve got, their voices swirling together into a formless blend of glee.

Their bright, bubbling happiness draws Dean in like a siren’s song, and he finds himself yelling right along with them. McJones even gives a loud _woo!_ of his own. There’s something indescribably freeing about standing on the very top of the world and screaming your heart out, screaming for everything you’ve felt in your life. Saying _here we are_. _We’re alive_. 

And Dean’s just so full of love, love for his friends and the world and _everything_ , that his heart is swelling and bursting at the seams with it. These kinds of moments are what keep them going, what drive them to put one foot in front of the other and never, ever give up. This—this right here—makes all of the horrible shit they’ve been through absolutely, one hundred percent worth it. 

Slowly, one by one, their voices taper off, and they breathe contented, silvery sighs into the air. Then, they finally begin their journey back down the mountainside. But it’s very, very different journey than the one they made this morning. The whole way down, they jostle each other energetically and talk over each other in a constant stream of words. This success has put everyone in a fantastic mood, and Dean delights in the warm, glowing butterflies their shared euphoria sends flitting through his chest.

Chad was right—the trek downhill goes so much faster. Dean blinks, and suddenly they’re nearing the bottom once again. All that muscle-straining work to reach the summit undone in just a short while. But even still, they’re a little too slow; mere minutes before they reach the base of the mountain, the skies finally burst open, and the rain comes pouring down upon them.

“ _Augh!_ Go, go, go!” McJones shrieks, and they all break into a run, skidding and slipping on scree down the rest of the path. They pile into their alcove soaked through like a bunch of drowned rats, leaving puddles wherever they stand and fucking _howling_ with laughter. There’s a sense of total hilarity in the fact that they can flirt with death fighting monsters all day, but a little rainwater is just too much for them.

McJones lights a fire in the furnace, and then they all curl up on their sleeping mats, shedding their sodden boots and dripping armor and mopping themselves off as best they can. Outside, the rain pounds down and the wind wails in their ears, interrupted only by the occasional, bone-rattling clap of thunder. But it’s no concern, because they’re tucked away in their little cave home, safe and warm and together and _happy_.

So, so happy.

* * *

The next morning, it’s up and at ‘em; although they’ve gotten through the hardest parts of the quest, they still have a long way to go before they’re done. They strike out onto the prairie bright and early, pushing their way through the still-damp grass. The air is humid with the remnants of last night’s storm, but disappointingly, the heavy rains have barely made a dent in the heat itself.

Near midday, they dive back into the dense forest. McJones takes them through the same way from whence they came, which seems like a mistake to Dean, considering he led them right into a skeleton mosh pit the last time. But luckily, the only monsters they run into are a couple of zombies and a spider or two. Duck soup, no big deal. Mostly, it’s just a lot of darkness and spooky silence again.

“Hey, uh, wouldn’t it just have been easier to go _around_ this forest instead of through?” Chad asks at one point, which seems very much to Dean like something he should’ve brought up earlier than this.

“Easier? Yeah. Faster? Not at all,” McJones replies simply, hopping over a fallen, moss-covered log. “I considered that when I was planning, but we’d just lose so much time going that far out of our way. It wasn’t feasible.”

Chad nods slightly. “Ah.”

They stop to have a late lunch by a small brook that Dean doesn’t remember passing before. Probably he was too busy fighting skeletons or being grumpy to notice. Either way, he enjoys it now, marveling at the impossible transparency of the water in the low torch light as he chews on a piece of cooked chicken. Even the river by their house, as clean and natural as it is, is way cloudier than this one.

After that, they get back to walking. They finally make it out of the woods just as the barest traces of dusk are starting to fall. From there, it’s only a couple minutes’ trek through the grass to reach home. But as they get closer, breaking into an eager run, it becomes very clear that it’s not the same home they left three days ago. For one thing, the small, chest-height saplings scattered around the house have swelled up to full-fledged trees. And also, it looks like Jeff had some time on his hands for those renovation ideas he was kicking around, because the house itself has gained an entire second story complete with a beautiful, open-air balcony facing the mountain range.

At long last, the four of them come to a stop beside one of the several bushy trees. They stand there for a moment, staring up at the artfully-crafted balcony in silent wonderment. Then, there comes a faint shout from within the house:

“They’re back!”

And a few second later, PBG flies out onto the balcony. He grabs at the railing and leans way over, a stupidly-huge smile on his face. “Hey!” he yells, bouncing up and down. “Hey guys! Welcome home!”

“What up, PBG? Guess what we have!” Dean singsongs.

“Potions?”

“ _Hella_ potions!” Dean holds up his bag, rattles it around a little until he hears the sound of clinking glass from within.

McJones shoots him a razor-sharp look. “Dean, if you break them after everything we just went through, I’m gonna kill you.”

“I’m not gonna break them, dude.”

“What do—what do you guys think of the balcony?” PBG cuts in, doing a little twirl. He’s tripping over his words just a bit, a sure sign that he’s all amped up. “Jeff and Barry were—they just put it up this morning!”

“It’s frickin’ awesome!” Chad exclaims, looking thoroughly impressed.

“I love it too! It’s so—so—I dunno. It kinda reminds me of, like, Shakespeare or something.” He clasps his hands over his heart, resting his arms on the railing with an overdramatic sigh. Behind him, Jeff appears in the wide, open doorway leading back inside.

“They’re all here? And they have the potions?” he says, a knot of worry in his expression. But when he catches sight of the others down below, his face smooths out into a relieved smile.

PBG glances over his shoulder with a boyish grin, revealing pointy canines. “Yup, they’re all here! Everything’s good!”

“Great job on the balcony, Jeff!” Dodger calls.

“Oh, thanks! It was crazy hard to build, but I’m super happy with how it turned out.” Jeff runs his palm proudly over the glossy, wooden railing.

“How long did it take to make?”

“Not too too long. I got started on it after lunch on the day you guys left, and then like Austin said, Barry and I finally finished it today. So, like, a day? Day-and-a-half?”

“Hey, can you guys quit yelling? I have a headache. And get inside, damn it, it’s gonna be dark soon,” comes Barry’s voice from within the house.

So they do. Everyone meets in the kitchen, dropping their bags on the table, slipping out of their chestplates and baldrics, and exchanging welcome-home hugs. True to his nature, Jeff immediately heads over to the food chest to gather some mutton and bread for the hungry homecomers, while everyone else takes a seat. Dean sprawls gratefully out in his chair, letting his head loll back with a content sigh.

“I know you said you’d be back in, like, three days,” Jeff chatters as he digs through the chest, “but I honestly didn’t expect you guys get here ‘till way late. If we’d known, we would’ve waited to eat dinner with you. Sorry.” Heading back over, he sets the food neatly on the table and grabs the empty seat beside PBG. “So, how’d everything go?”

“Really good, actually,” McJones replies, slinging his arm over the back of his chair. “Everything was more or less according to plan, and we were pretty much able to get in and get out without any trouble. I’m very glad with the way things panned out.”

“Nice, dude! We were pretty busy too while you were gone.” Jeff motions around the room. “Obviously, I made some additions to the house. Austin and I worked on the farm a little more—we found some potatoes, thank god, so now we can finally grow more than just wheat—and Barry organized our chests and also took care of the trees, as you probably saw.”

“Yeah, they grew so fast!” Dodger says in wonder, reaching for an apple. “How’d you do that?”

“Bone meal,” Barry throws back with a lopsided grin.

“Ah, gotcha.” Dodger nods quickly, but it’s clear from the look in her eyes that she has no idea what he’s talking about.

“So, what kind of potions did you guys end up getting?” PBG asks eagerly, rocking forward onto his elbows.

McJones’s eyes drift upward in thought. “Uh, off the top of my head, we have healing, regen—oh, and _fire resistance_. That one’s huge. It’s going to help us _so_ much in the Nether to have that. But in general, just a bunch of super useful stuff.”

“Oh, awesome. That’s really great news.” PBG offers a thankful grin. “To be honest, I was still kinda worried that we wouldn’t get anything good out of this quest, and it’d just end up being a total bust. I thought the whole thing was gonna be, like, frickin’— _Stewart’s Folly_ or whatever.”

McJones laughs at that, and PBG looks pleased with himself. Then, after a moment, his eyes light up. “Oh! And—and guess what else? We all went mining yesterday, and I found _diamond!_ ” he crows, sticking his thumb into his chest.

“Oh, of _course_ you did.” Dean glares at him from across the table. “I hate you.”

PBG smirks, poking his tongue between his teeth. “ _Heh_. Love you too, Dean.”

After the four of them eat, Jeff offers to show them the brand-new second floor. They and the others follow him back into the front room and over to the staircase that’s been built into the far wall. They tromp single-file up the narrow steps, and Dean has instant war flashbacks to the absolute nightmare that was the stairs inside the mountain yesterday. At least they can actually fucking see this time around.

As they ascend, Chad says, “Oh, by the way, we saw that wizard dude again.”

“Todd?” PBG asks.

“Yeah, that guy.”

“ _Lucky_.” Even from behind, Dean can tell PBG’s pouting. “Todd’s so cool. I wish he’d come and hang out with _me_.”

“Oh, no, he didn’t actually talk to us or anything. He just kinda stared at us from far away for a while. Floating and stuff.” Chad shakes his head. “Man, you’d think since he has all these frickin’ magical powers or whatever, he could just get the potions _for_ us instead of making us do all the work ourselves.”

PBG snickers. “Well, that’s Todd for you.”

“Yeah, Todd isn’t exactly known for being especially helpful,” McJones adds.

The second floor turns out to be just a single, wide, loft sort of room that’s largely empty. The only things of interest are the doorless opening to the balcony on one side and a couple of chests set up in the corner.

“There’s not much to see right now, I know, but we can put our brewing and enchanting stuff up here when we get around to making it,” Jeff says. He’s done this kind of setup before, but it always works out really well; brewing and enchanting are both very arduous and resource-intense processes, so it’s nice to have a separate space for them that’s not smack-dab in the middle of the house. But Chad and Dodger, of course, are experiencing Jeff’s handiwork for the very first time, so they wander around the room in utter awe for a good couple of minutes and shower Jeff with compliments on everything.

Then, as the two of them are busy marveling over the woodwork on the balcony’s railing, Jeff startles, his eyes widening. “Oh shit,” he hisses. “I was supposed to go out and check the potatoes. God, just watch me have _completely_ missed the harvesting period.” He makes for the staircase, but Dean snags his shoulder as he passes by.

“Wait, I can do that for you, Jeff.”

“Really? You sure? ‘Cause—”

Dean waves him off. “Yeah, yeah, it’s no biggie. I got you.”

“Well, thanks, dude.” Jeff smiles gratefully. “The potatoes are along one of the sides by the fence. I forget which one, but you’ll be able to tell.”

With a nod, Dean turns, hops down the stairs two at a time, and heads out the front door towards the farm. Truthfully, he doesn’t have entirely altruistic reasons for helping Jeff out here; he’s also secretly hoping to steal some of those freshly-grown potatoes for himself. Even if his thievery is found out, he’ll just argue that he deserves it for taking the farm labor off Jeff’s hands for a night. It’s a total win-win: Jeff gets to take it easy, and Dean gets a nice, steaming baked potato. Everyone profits.

Dean unlatches the fence gate and slips into the farm, carefully picking his way over to the row of potato plants. Squatting, he inspects the drooping bunch of leaves poking out of the ground and gives one of them a little rub between his fingers. Then, he moves onto the second bunch in the row, working his way down plant by plant. When he reaches the end of the plot, he stands back up, frowning. All of the foliage is still alive, which means the potatoes need longer to grow before they hit peak harvesting time. Damn. His baked potato will have to wait.

He peers up at the balcony as he lets himself back out of the farm, but Dodger and Chad are nowhere to be found. They all probably went back downstairs in the meantime. Sighing comfortably, he weaves around one of the trees in front of their house, letting his hand drag across the ridged bark as he goes. It’s actually really good that Barry got the saplings all grown. Maybe now they won’t have to walk ten fucking minutes every time they need more wood.

By now, the sun is no more than a semicircle of fire sitting primly on the horizon, and Dean stops for a minute to admire the colors it casts across the sky—all the oranges and pinks and periwinkle blues marbled together. Too bad they didn’t get to see _this_ while they were up on the mountaintop. Dean casts a glance over at the peak of the mountain, half-hidden behind thin, white clouds once more. It’s hard to believe it was just yesterday that they were all the way up there. Even though his sore legs feel every step of the journey, it just seems impossible that—

A sizzle from behind him. A hiss, like smoking gunpowder.

Dean’s veins constrict with a shot of adrenaline. He whips around, stumbling in the slick grass.  Out of the corner of his eye, he sees it—a lumpy form flashing rapidly from sickly green to stark white. He jolts instinctively to grab for his sword, but his fingers find only empty air at his hip. His stomach goes into free-fall.

“Oh _shi_ —”

The creeper detonates.

The explosion hits him like a sledgehammer. Launching him back as if he’s just a ragdoll, throwing him into one of the trees. His head slams against the trunk, and bullets of pain explode across his skull. His vision goes hazy gray. He crumples sideways, falling hard into the grass.

Everything’s hot and blank. The air is choked with soot. He tries to breathe, but his lungs are shriveled. He’s in pieces. His skin is burning. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts so much.

Suddenly, there are hands grabbing at him. Pulling him by the shoulders. Dean’s dimly aware of someone yelling. But the words are distant. Foggy. Muffled by the harsh ringing in his ears. Swimming in and out of clarity like they’re coming from underwater.

_Dean! Oh, Dean—someone come help me with him! We have to get him back to the house, he’s—crap, I don’t think he’s conscious! Hurry!_

Dean tries to say something, but he can’t move his mouth. He can’t move anything. His body feels like static. Then, he’s being lifted into the air. His neck lolls backwards limply, sharply. His head shatters in two, the pain like daggers through his bones. His eyes are being carved to bits in their sockets. The voices in his ears fade to a distorted hum.

And blackness falls hard onto him like a thousand-ton weight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chad’s enthusiasm for Hardcore warms my heart. Not only was he an awesome guest, but he went so far as to set aside time to do a personal, one-on-one post-show interview with Todd. _And_ he also admitted to being such a serious & long-time fan of Hardcore that he even made his own hardcores back in the day. It’s just so wholesome, and I really really hope he gets to come back and give it another go in the future (especially considering that MC 6 has been, as Todd seems to put it, _lost to time_.)
> 
> Also, I get inordinately pleased with myself every time I manage to sneak in a pun on McJones’s name.
> 
> See you Friday!


	7. Part Seven

###### Part Seven

Dean comes to with a start.

The first thing he realizes is that he’s lying on the floor of their house. Instantly, an overwhelming sense of relief blooms out like a flower in his chest. He’s still in the same world. That creeper didn’t kill him. Thank fucking _god_.

But then, as his grogginess slowly begins to peel away at the edges, that relief is replaced with confusion. Because he’s lying on the floor in their house, and he has absolutely no idea how he got here. The last thing he remembers is slamming into one of the trees. He struggles to sit up, but the moment he lifts his head, an immense, white-hot pain fires through his skull, and he cries out.

“Woah, woah, shit, dude! Be careful!” comes a voice.

When the stabbing pain begins to ebb, Dean gingerly glances up to see Jeff and PBG standing over him. Jeff’s eyebrows are knitted with concern, and PBG’s hands are clasped together nervously. “You shouldn’t move too much,” Jeff says. “You might hurt yourself even worse.”

“You’re tellin’ me...” Dean groans, his voice coming out ragged. He reaches up to rub his aching temples, and to his surprise, he feels a soft, gauzy bandage wrapped across his forehead. “Holy fuck. How long was I out?”

“Not too long. Maybe six, seven minutes, tops.”

The haze clears a little more, and Dean finally notices that he’s not, in fact, on the floor. Instead, he’s sprawled on a low, makeshift cot that Jeff probably rushed to cobble together just for him. A blanket off someone’s bed has been haphazardly thrown over him too. He tries again to sit up, making sure to move a lot more delicately this time.

He still has all his arms and legs, which is definitely a plus. Losing limbs is rare for them—trauma bad enough to amputate usually just straight-up kills you anyway—but it’s happened before. Barry had his left arm blown off once a while back, and it was a fat fucking mess, is what it was. None of them are medically capable enough to deal with such an extreme injury. All they can really do is try to perform some highly questionable, back-alley surgery and whip up a potion or something for the pain. Unsurprisingly, Barry didn’t end up lasting long. Poor guy. At least he was fortunate enough to spend most of his remaining time unconscious.

Dean squints around the room with weary eyes. It’s completely empty save for him, Jeff, and PBG. PBG’s still staring at Dean like he thinks Dean’s gonna buy the farm any moment now, which, to be fair, is a completely valid reaction to what just happened. Dean’s pretty freaked out himself; his chest is tight with lingering shreds of panic, and that earth-shattering _boom_ is still jarring against his eardrums. Creeper sneak attacks are one of their highest causes of death, so for Dean to come out of one relatively unscathed—especially considering he didn’t have his shield _or_ his armor on him at the time—is a miracle. He’s fucking lucky to be alive, is what he is.

Then, Jeff turns in the direction of the back bedroom. “ _McJones_! Dean’s awake!” he calls.

“— _What_?” comes McJones’s voice after a moment, muffled by the closed door. “ _Dean’s_ _awake_?”

“Yeah!”

Dean hears a scrambling sound from within. A second later, the bedroom door slams open and McJones bursts out in a flurry. But he abruptly stops as soon as he sees Dean lying there, and he stands stock-still just beyond the doorway.

“Ah, so he is,” he says finally.

Then, there’s a shout from behind him, and Barry, Dodger, and Chad come spilling into the room as well, shoving past him and rushing to Dean’s side. The three of them crowd around him, talking a mile a minute about being _super freaked out_ and _so glad you’re okay, Dean, holy shit_. Dodger especially worries over him, hugging him fiercely and offering him food and making sure he’s really alright. Dean soaks up all the attention gratefully, letting it distract him from his head. But after a few minutes, McJones approaches with an assortment of medical supplies gathered in his arms and gives a pointed clear of his throat.

“Okay, guys,” he cuts in, “I know you’re happy he’s alive, but give him some space. I need room to work here.”

So the others obediently disperse. Barry and Chad go outside to gather water and put more torches around the farm so they can hopefully ward off any future creeper attacks, while Dodger simply retreats back into the bedroom. PBG and Jeff, on the other hand, stick around for a bit to do some smelting, but they stay quiet and out of the way. With the crowd gone, McJones sets his stuff on the floor and lowers himself onto the edge of Dean’s cot.

For a moment, he regards Dean with a strange expression. Then, without warning, he leans about a foot closer to Dean and stares directly into his eyes with unnerving intensity. Dean flinches, a smoldering warmth bubbling up beneath his skin. “McJones, what—what the hell are you doing?” he mumbles.

“Checking your pupils,” McJones replies shortly.

“...Ooookay.”

After another second or so, McJones mercifully sits back, folding his hands across his thigh. “So, Dean. Can you tell me what happened to you?”

“Can I _what?_ What do you mean? I got dicked seven ways to Sunday by a creeper, and then my head almost got smashed in like a pumpkin.” Dean squints at him. “I don’t have fucking amnesia, dude.”

McJones nods to himself, ignoring the irritation in Dean’s voice. “Good, good,” he murmurs. “Pupils are the same size, and there’s no signs of confusion or loss of coordination. I’m pretty confident that you don’t have any brain damage.” Then, he pauses, and his eyebrows do this little pop upwards. “Well, no more than usual, I mean.”

From beside one of the furnaces, Jeff snorts, but he hastily tries to cover it with a cough.

“Suck my dick, McJones,” Dean growls.

The corner of McJones’s mouth twitches just before he turns away. Leaning down, he grabs a roll of bandages and sets them beside himself on the cot.

“Okay, take off your shirt,” he orders, pointing a finger. Dean’s mouth snaps open to reply, but McJones cuts him off with an icy look. “And I _know_ you’re gonna try and turn that into a sex joke, so don’t even bother saying it.”

“Aw. It was gonna be a good one, though.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.” McJones shakes his head. “Just—get your shirt off for me, please. I’m trying to help you.”

Dean reaches back, grabs the neck of his shirt, and yanks it up and over his head. He lets it drop carelessly to the floor in a pool of fabric. “Done.”

“Good. Now turn around. I bandaged your head while you were out, but I didn’t want to try to deal with your back until you woke up.”

“My back?” Dean repeats, drawing his legs up onto the cot and scooting himself to face the opposite direction. The instant he does so, he hears McJones suck in a sharp breath through his teeth, which is mildly alarming.

“Oh _wow_. Uh. Okay. Yeah, your back’s...rough. The creeper messed it up real bad. And it didn’t help when you hit that tree either. You’re...” Dean feels McJones shift closer to him, and his exposed skin tingles. “You’re still bleeding in a bunch of places. All these cuts need to be covered so they don’t get infected.”

Come to think of it, Dean’s back _does_ feel pretty sore and ripped up. He just didn’t register it around the absolute fuckshow that’s his head right now. But now that there’s nothing between it and the air, it’s really beginning to smart. And also, he notes with a sideways glance, the backside of his rumpled shirt is, in fact, shredded in places and spotted all over with red.

McJones’s gaze lingers on Dean’s bare skin for another moment. “...I’m going to need to clean the blood off before I bandage you,” he adds eventually.

“’S your call, doc.” Dean shrugs, feeling kind of uncomfortable.

Behind him, McJones stands quickly, trotting over to the other side of the room and returning with a half-filled bucket of water and a washcloth. Dean hears the low dunking sound of the cloth being plunged into the bucket, followed by a cascade of _plips_ as McJones wrings it out. “I’m gonna be honest with you, Dean,” he says, sitting back down, “this won’t feel great.”

“Nah, dude, I’ll be fine. I’m tough, I can take— _fuck!_ ”

The instant McJones presses the damp cloth to his torn skin, he jolts. Because _holy shit_ , it stings. It stings so badly it’s like fire all up his back. He can immediately feel every single scrape as if a thousand needles are plunging into him. McJones rubs over a particularly raw spot, and he hisses sharply, squirming, barely biting back another curse. His fingers curl, clamping down. He squeezes his eyes shut tight. But through the screaming of his nerves, he can hear McJones murmuring, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m almost done.” It’s oddly sweet of him.

After what feels like an hour, McJones finally pulls away, withdrawing the washcloth. Dean exhales heavily in relief and drags his forearm across his face. His skin still burns, but it’s already a lot better without the friction of the cloth.

“Jesus Christ. _Ow_. Why the _fuck_ did that hurt so bad?”

“Because it’s water on open wounds,” McJones says flatly, and he unceremoniously drops the cloth to the ground. Dean twists slightly to look at it, and he sees that the once-pale fabric has turned a splotchy, rusty crimson. Fucking fantastic. The creeper itself didn’t kill him, but now he’s probably going to die of blood loss from a bunch of awful flesh wounds. He’s a mess.

Considering the apparent state of his back, Dean expects McJones to get right to bandaging him up. But McJones is just sitting there behind him, completely unmoving. The silence stretches on for five, ten, fifteen seconds. Dean licks his lips. PBG and Jeff are gone now, he notices. He didn’t see them leave.

“...Do you think maybe I can have my hand back now?” McJones asks suddenly, his voice strangely subdued.

Dean turns to shoot him a baffled look, because what the hell’s he talking about? But McJones only blinks back at Dean like he’s supposed to understand, which is more than a little concerning to him. Is he, like, having a stroke right now? Maybe he actually _did_ get brain damage from hitting his head.

But then Dean looks down. And he finally realizes that, in the midst of all that agony, he somehow managed to latch onto McJones’s free hand. And what’s even worse is that he’s _still_ clutching it in a fucking death grip.

“Uh,” says Dean.

He and McJones both stare at their linked hands. His fingers are dug into McJones’s skin definitely hard enough to leave nail marks. After a moment, his eyes flick back up to McJones’s face. McJones swallows, bristling, and his mouth tightens a fraction. Quickly, Dean yanks his hand away and balls it into a fist in his lap.

“Shit. Sorry,” he mutters, internally cringing from the sheer fucking awkwardness.

“Yup.”

As McJones begins to rustle around with the strips of bandage, Dean flexes his fingers in and out. McJones’s palm was warm. It actually felt kinda nice, honestly.

“Lift your arms,” McJones instructs brusquely, leaning close to Dean once again. Dean complies, and carefully, McJones threads the bandage beneath his armpit. Then, he slides his hand around Dean’s other side to snag the end of it and loop it around Dean’s chest. Dean gets hot behind the eyes. The thought occurs to him that he could just lean back and let himself fall into McJones’s arms with how they’re positioned. But since he has a sense of self-preservation, he doesn’t dare; McJones would throw him back out to the creepers in two seconds flat.

McJones falls into a rhythm, winding the gauze around and around Dean’s middle, slowly working his way down from shoulder blades to waist. Meanwhile, Dean tries to ignore the fact that McJones keeps having to reach around him like he’s spooning him.

“Can—can you breathe? I’m not doing it too tight, am I?”

When McJones speaks, his breath flutters against Dean’s bare shoulder, and Dean breaks out in goosebumps. He takes a few experimental breaths of his own, feeling the bandages move with the rise and fall of his chest. “No, I’m good.”

“Good.”

Then, gradually, Dean starts to become aware that McJones is working weirdly fast. He’s always been quick and practiced when it comes to this sort of thing, but now, it's like he’s bordering on actual carelessness. He keeps fumbling with and almost dropping the bandages, and he’s yanking on them a little more forcefully than it seems like he needs to. His motions are jerky and stiff, and every time his knuckles happen to graze against Dean’s skin, he tears his hand back like he’s been shocked. 

It’s almost like he wants this to be over with as soon as possible.

The pleasant heat in Dean’s gut drains away, replacing itself with a taut, rocky feeling. “Oh,” he says roughly. “ _Oh_. I get it. I get what’s going on here.”

McJones’s bandaging falters for a half a second. “What’s that, Dean?”

“You don’t want to be doing this, do you?” Dean’s tone turns sour, accusatory. “You’re mad ‘cause you have to fix me up. You don’t think I deserve it.”

“...What are you _talking about?_ ”

Dean twists back to glare at him, but he moves too quickly, and his head gives an especially violent throb. “You—” he winces against the pain, eyes narrowing, “—you think it’s not fair that _you_ should have to help _me_. ‘Cause the irony, right?”

McJones has this kind of rapid blinking thing going on. He coughs a little bit but otherwise doesn’t reply, which pisses Dean off even more.

“Can you quit acting like such a jackass for, like, _five seconds?_ ” he snaps. This is unbelievable. Dean _literally_ almost died, but McJones still can’t deign to be nice to him. He can’t put aside his grudge even just to cover his teammate’s goddamn open wounds. “I know you hate this, but I didn’t get fucking blown up just to spite you.”

McJones's gaze jumps away, his mouth dipping. “Look, Dean, if you’re going to be a dick, I’m leaving.”

Without warning, he braces his hands on his knees and stands, the cot creaking with the loss of his weight. Dean jerks forward in disbelief.

“What—you’re just gonna let me bleed out?!”

“I’m done bandaging you. You’ll be fine.”

“Oh.”

McJones bends to pick up the bucket of water and the bloody washcloth. And then, he strides out of the room without a glance behind him, his boots thudding against the wooden floor as he goes. Dean rubs his forehead with the heels of his hands and groans long and loud into the empty air.

This sucks.

He’s sorry that McJones died because of him. He really, really is. The guilt is eating him alive like a starving rodent in a sack of grain. But even still, he wishes McJones didn’t have to be so...so passive-aggressive about it. At this point, it would probably just be better if McJones said in real life what he did in that horrible dream Dean had a few nights back:

_You did this to me. It’s all your fault._

As devastating as it would be to hear, at least it would finally be out in the fucking open. At least McJones would finally say what he was thinking instead of merely letting it seep into his every word and action like some kind of miasma. Giving another heavy sigh, Dean pulls his ripped shirt down over his bandaged torso and flops onto his side.

A short while later, Dean hears the front door bang open, and PBG comes lurching back into the room with a teetering armful of chopped wood. He dumps the wood noisily on the table, snatches a slice of bread from the food chest, and heaves himself up onto the tabletop, facing Dean.

“Hey, buddy. How you feeling?” he asks, mouth full.

“I’m alright, I guess. My head hurts like a bitch,” Dean replies, propping himself up on his elbow, and PBG nods knowingly.

“Yeah, you hit it real hard against that tree, huh? Sheesh. McJones was pretty worried you concussed yourself.”

“ _Worried?_ ” Dean scoffs. “Uh, no, he couldn’t have given less of a shit about me.”

PBG frowns, casting his hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head. “No, seriously, he was. He was the one who bandaged up your forehead, you know. And he was the first to get to you after that creeper blew. By the time the rest of us ran outside, he was already pulling you to safety all by ‘imself.”

Dean stills. All at once, he remembers the vague feeling of someone grabbing at him. The faint, panicked shouts coming from beside him. 

“...What?”

“Yup.” PBG swings his legs back and forth lackadaisically, giving another nod. “And then he actually went a little bit nuts once we realized you’d passed out. He was running around and screaming at us like, frickin’—‘ _Don’t move Dean’s neck too much! Be careful when you put him down! Keep an eye on his pulse!’_ And—stuff.” PBG coughs awkwardly, maybe realizing that he’s kinda mocking Dean’s near-death experience. “He freaked out, basically. I know my brother, and I promise you, he was seriously worried about you.”

Dean’s quiet as the words sink in. Slowly, his forehead wrinkles. “...No,” he says after a moment, “no, I don’t believe that. He was so fucking uncaring just now, when he was doing the rest of my bandages. You weren’t here, but I’m telling you, he didn’t give a single shit about me or my wellbeing. He couldn’t—I really don’t—there’s just no way _he_ saved my life out there.”

Dean’s mouth twists. _McJones_ was the one dragging him through the grass and shouting for help, in his voice pulled taut with genuine terror? Yeah, bullshit. He can barely stand to be near Dean for more than five minutes. He’s not Dean’s savior, not a snowball’s chance in hell.

But PBG only rolls his eyes, an annoyed look crossing his face.

“Yeah, well, Stewart’s always been a goddamn liar,” he grumbles. He takes a crumby chomp of his bread and doesn’t offer any clarification to that statement.

Then, Dodger emerges from the bedroom, swooping in and putting a stop to their conversation. Dean shows off his bandages, and she cries that they're “badass, like you were in a knife fight or something!” which is a nice stroke of Dean’s ego. And soon enough, Barry and Chad come back inside too, each of them hauling a fresh bucket of water. McJones and Jeff are around as well, but it’s at this point that Dean starts to get groggy, his head voicing complaints against all the stimulation. So, he turns over towards the wall and shuts his eyes to get some rest.

* * *

Dean drifts in and out of sleep for the next hour or so. After spending the past couple of nights on what was basically the glorified ground, this little cot of his feels almost as good as a regular bed. Snoozing helps his head feel a little less like someone cracked it open with a diamond pick, and he’s definitely grateful for that. By the time he pulls himself out of his nap with a stifled yawn, the pain in his temples has faded from a pulsing ache to an unpleasant-yet-bearable soreness.

Night has fallen by this point, so the day’s commotion is finally starting to wind down. Chad turns in early, exhausted from their quest, and bids good night to everyone; Jeff goes out to breed the cows, Dodger eagerly tagging along with him; and PBG heads to the river behind the house to bathe. Barry stays inside, clanging away on iron armor for a while, but he eventually announces he’s going over to the forest to hunt spiders for string and slips out into the night.

And that just leaves Dean and McJones.

It’s hot, as usual. The windows have all been thrown open in a desperate attempt to cool the place off, but the breeze wafting through the house is more lukewarm than anything. Dean’s knocked his blanket onto the floor and is currently spread-eagle on his cot. Somehow, he’s managed to get sweaty _underneath_ his bandages, which is just fucking lovely.

Across the room, McJones has long since discarded his shirt, and he’s now sitting there in only a dark tank top, revealing an honestly impressive farmer’s tan cutting across his biceps. It would probably be a stupid look on anyone else, but somehow he makes it work. He’s leaning back in his chair, his boots kicked up onto the edge of the table, and squinting as he carefully threads a needle across a long tear in the side of a bodice. Dean studies him lazily.

Everyone was _merciless_ when he first started teaching himself to sew. They gave him so much shit for it—and still do, sometimes. But the truth is, they’d be wearing rags if it weren’t for McJones constantly patching up their clothes for them. In the beginning, he wasn’t very good; the stitching was uneven—although it worked well enough—and his fingers were always bloodied from accidentally stabbing himself with the needle. But by now, he’s reached grandma levels of sewing proficiency. He works deftly, closing up rips and holes so well you can barely tell anything happened. He claims he only does it for necessity’s sake, but they once got him to admit he finds it soothing in a mindless, repetitive sort of way.

Now, McJones holds the fabric up to the light, twisting it back and forth as he inspects it. After a second, he gives a small, satisfied smile.

“Dodger, I have your—”

He breaks off when he looks up and realizes Dean’s the only other person around.

“She left, dude,” Dean says. “Went out with Jeff about ten minutes ago.”

“Oh.”

He glances around the room for a moment. Then, turning back to his work, he gives the vest a good shake and neatly folds it up. Setting it aside, he reaches over to grab another damaged article of clothing from the pile next to him. He was kind enough to do Dean’s shirt very first thing, although it definitely still needs a wash to get the blood out of it before it can be considered good as new.

Dean’s starting to get hungry again. Truth be told, he’s been getting hungry for the past twenty minutes, but he’s just been too tired, overheated, and in pain to do anything about it until it reaches the point where ignoring his basic needs is no longer an option. Unfortunately, though, it looks like he might be just about there. Dean rolls listlessly over onto his side. Fuck, he could really go for a baked potato right now; that would get him off this cot in a nanosecond, head trauma be damned. Of course, that dream’s fucking dead in the water. As dead as he almost was.

…Come to think of it, this whole situation is pretty unfair. He nearly _died_ going out to check on the potato plants, but he doesn’t even get to eat a single one! The fucking injustice of it! Life sucks.

Dean’s stomach gives a particularly violent groan, and he lets out one of his own in answer. Finally, he summons the will to sit forward, swing his legs off the bed, and begin to clamber to his feet. But as soon as his boots touch the floor, McJones’s head snaps up.

“Wait, stop!” he half-squawks, eyes flashing. “What are you doing?!”

“I’m just getting food. What’s your problem?” Dean squints at him.

“You’re _injured_ , Dean! If you move around too much, you could hurt your head even worse, and you’ll mess up your bandages too! You have to let yourself rest!”

“I’m probably not even bleeding anymore. Chill.”

McJones doesn’t chill. “Look, what do you want? I’ll get it for you. Just lie back down.” He holds out his hands in a way that’s probably supposed to be pacifying but is actually really annoying. Still, Dean complies, giving an irritated huff.

“Alright, if you say so.”

McJones pushes himself back from the table, his chair coming down onto all four legs with a _thunk_. He stands and marches over to the food chest, lifting open the lid. As he stares into the depths, he pulls absently at the hem of his undershirt, revealing a thin band of pale skin around his middle where it rides up. Christ, Dean wants to shove his fingers up that shirt.

“So, what’ll it be?” McJones asks finally, glancing back, oblivious to the fact that Dean’s blatantly and shamelessly checking him out. Dean shrugs a shoulder.

“I dunno. Just...you got any apples in there?”

“Sure, man.”

He plucks a shiny, red apple from the recesses of the chest and nudges the lid closed with his elbow. As he slips around the table towards Dean, he tosses the apple back and forth between his hands. For a moment, Dean forgets that he’s mad and they’re not really talking to each other, and a grin snakes across his face.

“Damn, McJones,” he says. “Sewing our clothes _and_ bringing me food? You’ll make a great wifey someday.”

“Up yours.”

With a seething glare, McJones practically throws the apple at him, and Dean, snickering to himself, snatches it up and takes a juicy bite. But suddenly, just as McJones steps back, lowering his arm, Dean catches sight of something. Something that makes a ball of lead slam into his stomach. Something that turns the apple utterly tasteless in his mouth.

“Wait—what was that?” he demands, the words crowding together on his tongue.

“What was what?”

“On your arm.”

McJones eyes slide away, and he hesitates for just the barest second. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 _Liar. Liar. Fucking liar_. Impulsively, Dean reaches for him.

“Let me see.”

“Dean, don’t—”

McJones twists away, but Dean’s faster. His fingers curl around McJones’s left wrist and _yank_. McJones stumbles, caught off guard, and his muscles goes slack with surprise. And in that instant, his arm is completely exposed for Dean to see.

And it’s exactly what he thought. Exactly what he hoped he wouldn’t find. His worst nightmare come true. There, right on McJones’s inner forearm, are two jagged circles of discolored skin.

Two scars in the exact shape of puncture wounds.

Dean goes still. Still as a stone. All he can do is stare, almost disbelieving. Almost uncomprehending. His pulse is gunfire in his ears. A sick kind of horror winds itself tight around his heart, crushing it into a bloody pulp. And the words that come to him, punching through his skull like it’s made of paper, are—

_I should’ve fucking known._

Because they’re not strangers to scars. For the most part, their wounds vanish whenever they start over in a new world. But occasionally, if they die in a particularly terrible manner, a mark of it will be left behind on their skin forever. In that way, their bodies tell the stories of their adventures: Dean himself has a several-inch-wide gash on his right side from when he died to a spike trap; Barry has a cut down the center of his chest from a nasty run-in with a pigman; Lucah’s got a handful of arrow wounds on her legs; and PBG and McJones themselves have twin patches of burn tissue flowering out across their opposite shoulder blades, a relic of the time when they got caught in a Nether lava flow together.

They all have their scars, each and every one of them. And with how bad McJones’s death was, with the nastiness of the poison and how much he bled, with the way it took him slowly and then all at once—really, this shouldn’t be coming as any sort of shock to Dean. Not at all.

And yet, he feels like he’s been blown apart.

Like there’s a hole where his chest should be. Like if he looked down, his guts would be splattered there all over the floor. But he’s a stunned husk, frozen in place. Unable to do anything but stare and stare and stare.

Oh god, he didn’t know. He didn’t know. Even though McJones doesn’t exactly hide his skin, even though he rolls his sleeves up often enough that he’s got a fucking tan, Dean didn’t have a goddamn clue. He never paid enough attention. He was never aware enough to notice a thing. He should’ve fucking known, but he _didn’t_ , because he’s an _idiot_.

Dean’s going to throw up. Because this makes everything so much worse. McJones has to see his own body every fucking day and be reminded of what Dean did to him. And that reminder is _never_ going away. It’s going to stay with him through this world, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next _,_ and on and on for fucking eternity. His pretty skin is marred forever, and it’s _all Dean’s fucking fault_.

Drawing in a shaking breath, Dean finally lifts his head, terrified of what he might find in McJones’s face. But McJones is just watching him in silence, eyes dark and lowered and completely unreadable. Wretchedly, Dean wonders what it was like for him when he first saw the scars on his arm. What did he feel? Revulsion? Fury? Indignation that he should be marked for something that wasn’t even his own doing? Or just sadness, maybe.

Dean swallows heavily, but his throat is being crushed under the chokehold of guilt. His eyes are burning, aching, and all he wants is to throw himself at McJones’s feet and cry until he runs out of tears and beg for forgiveness and tell him how fucking _sorry_ he is. That he’d do anything to make the scars go away. That he wishes so badly that it was him who died back there instead.

But what he does instead is blurt, “I missed you.”

McJones’s face shifts slightly.

“...What?”

“When—when you died. When you were dead. Last time.” Dean licks his lips. The inside of his mouth is so dry. “It wasn’t right without you. Everything felt so weird. We weren’t supposed to lose you like that. And it sucked. Like there was an empty space where you should’ve been. It was all—it didn’t—”

McJones’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, which is understandable, because Dean has no idea what the fuck he’s saying either. But he can’t seem to make himself shut up.

“You were supposed to be there with us,” he blunders on, voice quavering. “You deserved to see that world to the end. We didn’t win, but still. You should’ve been there. With me. With us. It shouldn’t have happened like it did. And it—it was just so good to have you back. I don’t know. I just missed you so much, and…”  

He trails off. McJones says nothing. After a moment, Dean realizes he’s still gripping McJones’s wrist way too tightly. He lets go, but he can’t quite bring himself to pull his hand away completely, so he just lets it sit there. His eyes are drawn back down to the two puncture scars like iron filings to a magnet. The two shiny-pink marks, only barely beginning to fade to a pale white.

Dean doesn’t think about what he does next—he just acts: He reaches up and slowly, so, so slowly, brushes the pads of his fingers over the scars.

McJones instantly stiffens, but strangely, he doesn’t make any move to push Dean away. The scars feel slightly leathery to the touch and a little bit raised, noticeably different from the soft, surrounding skin. Dean wonders if they ever hurt him, if they ever ache with phantom pain the way Dean’s scars do sometimes. He can almost see them how they looked back in the mineshaft, ringed yellow from poison and spilling over with an endless flow of blood.

What a terrible way to go. Dean leans in closer, and he rubs his thumb gently, tenderly across one of the blotches. And all at once, something in the air shifts.

Dean feels it palpably, and maybe McJones does too, because his muscles loosen slightly under Dean’s hand. He makes a noise like a quiet sucking in of a breath, and when Dean looks up at him again, there’s a strange flicker behind his eyes that Dean can’t quite make sense of. His mouth is open slightly, as if he’s meaning to say something, but he never does.

Dean presses his fingers against the scars once more, giving each one a soft boop. A moment passes, and then two. A heartbeat, and then two. McJones shifts, exhales, but still he doesn’t pull away. A hazy kind of feeling comes over Dean. And carelessly, almost whimsically, he begins to skate his fingers along the smooth, sun-darkened skin of McJones’s inner arm.

This is so fucking dangerous, but Dean doesn’t even try to stop himself. Inch by inch, he slides his hand down the whole length of McJones’s forearm, and a slow, nervous buzz begins to rise in his fingertips. He bumps over McJones’s wrist and gently trails along the grooves in his palm before finally coming to a stop. And, in a burst of boldness, he curls his fingers against McJones’s.

Neither of them moves. Crickets are chirping faintly outside. Dean’s hair is stuck to the back of his neck. He can’t breathe.

And then, McJones presses his hand up against Dean’s in response.

Dean’s insides go tingly with shock, and it feels like the world shrinks down to nothing. Nothing but this thing between them, this _whatever-it-is_ they’re having right now. This startlingly vulnerable moment.

It’s just McJones, his eyes going all round-pupiled and melty at the edges.

Just Dean, overflowing with guilt and regret and all sorts of muddied-up feelings.

Just the two of them, linked by the ends of their fingers, quietly staring into each other. Dean lifts his chin—

“We’re back!” Dodger cries, bursting into the room. McJones’s arm snaps back to his side like a wooden doll, and he turns away, running a hand over his tawny hair.

The front door slams shut, and then Jeff appears behind her. “Holy crap, there was a _lot_ of cow mating that just happened out there,” he adds with a laugh, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“A cow orgy, my dudes! It was sweet!”

“Fuckin’ A,” says Dean, but his head is spinning, and for once, it’s not from pain. He finally picks his apple up from beside him and takes another bite, relishing how the tart flavors seem to instantly calm his growling stomach and his swirling mind.

On the other side of the room, McJones motions Dodger over. “Hey, I finished fixing your vest, by the way.”

“Oh, that quick?”

“Mm-hm.”

He holds out the cloth for her to take, and she does, turning it around in her hands with an air of curiosity. As she trails her finger over the spot along the side where the tear was, she breaks into a bright grin.

“Holy shit, McJones! This is great!” she exclaims. She pulls the bodice on over her white, collared shirt and smooths down the hem admiringly. “Wow, thank you so much. You’re really talented.”

McJones waves her off. “Oh, no problem. It’s nothing special, really. I just closed up the gap along the existing seam.”

But even from across the room, Dean can see the pleased flush settling over McJones’s cheeks, can see the little grin crossing his lips as he studies the floor, his shoulders rising just a tad. And Dean wishes sourly that _he_ could be the one to make McJones look like that.

After that, Dodger proclaims that she’s had enough excitement for one day, and she bids them all a cheerful _g’night!_ and slips into the bedroom. Dean notices that she leaves behind her boots, kicked off carelessly and left in the middle of the floor where they’re liable to trip someone, and he smirks to himself.

McJones, meanwhile, settles himself down at the table to get to mending again—his own shirt this time. As he winds the needle in and out of the fabric, Dean keeps catching these gut-wrenching glimpses of the scars on his arm. For a short while, Dean tries to work up the nerve to apologize to him, but he can’t quite make himself do it. It’s just—there’s _people_ around now, and he’s not going to say it in front of fucking Jeff or whatever. And besides, the moment’s over. He had his chance, and he blew it. McJones is never going to be so soft towards him again. Whatever door that opened inside of McJones has slammed right back shut. Dean takes another, resigned bite of his apple.

Not too much later, Barry comes back in covered in purplish bloodstains and clutching a fat tangle of spider string in one hand. He deposits the string in one of their chests, saying something to Jeff beside him. Dean doesn’t catch the exact words, but whatever it is, it makes Jeff laugh and remark, “Badass.”

Then, Barry turns and leans over the table, bracing his weight on his palms. “Hey, Stewart, where’s Austin?”

“What?” McJones turns to look up at him. “How would _I_ know? I’ve been inside since we got back.” A smile filters into his voice. “You think I know where he is all the time? Am I my brother's keeper?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

McJones giggles a little. “…Well, fair enough, I guess,” he acknowledges, and he jabs his sewing needle in the direction of the river. “Last I heard, Austin was out cleaning himself up.”

“Oh, nice.” A slow, teasing smile works its way across Barry’s face, and he drums his fingers on the table in an eager beat. “Think I should head down there? See if he’ll give me some, uh, _fanservice?_ ”

“I think I don’t want to hear that combination of words in relation to my own brother ever again, that’s what I think. Gross, man,” McJones says with a grimace. Jeff gives another, softer, laugh, and Barry joins in for a moment.

“Touché,” he snickers. Then, he skims his palm over the back of his head with an easy sigh. “Anyway, for real, I’m tired. I think I’m gonna make like the newbies and hit the hay. Weren’t too many spiders out there tonight, so I only got enough string for maybe a couple bows.”

“No problem.” McJones rips a loose thread from the cloth with his teeth and spits it carelessly onto the floor. “Anything you got was more than enough. I’ll take a look tomorrow and see what we can do.”

Behind him, Jeff stretches, leaning up against a chest. “I might turn in now too, actually. It’s pretty late.”

“Yeah, I should probably get to bed also,” Dean adds, sitting up with a muffled grunt. Except McJones interrupts him before he can even make another move:

“Nope, you’re not going anywhere. You need to stay there a while longer to recover.”

Which is honestly such an inspiring set of words. So inspiring, in fact, that Dean feels motivated to open a dialogue with McJones.

“Are you fucking kidding me, dude?! I slept on the goddamn _ground_ for two days, and now when we’re _finally_ home, you’re trying to tell me I can’t go enjoy my tasty, tasty bed?! Screw you!”

“It’s one night, Dean,” is McJones’s rejoinder, and that’s all he says on the matter. So Dean drops a few more choice insults before dropping himself back onto the cot with an obnoxious huff.

On that note, Jeff and Barry head off to the bedroom. Dean watches them enviously, the cot already starting to feel pokey and uncomfortable beneath him with the knowledge he’s going to be stuck on it all night. He gnaws irritably on the last edible bits of his apple, and then he turns and heaves the core right out the open window with a well-aimed throw and a “ _Kobe!_ ”

After a few minutes, PBG comes quietly ambling into the room, finally done with his bath. His hair, all damp and mussed up, is hanging down into his face, and he’s rubbing the corners of his eyes with his fingers. After a moment, his gaze falls on McJones, who’s getting up from the table with a stifled yawn, and a funny little half-grin tugs at his mouth.

“Did you wait up for me?” he asks, his voice laced with exhaustion.

“No, actually, I was already planning to—”

“Aww, you _do_ care!” PBG clasps his hands together all sappy-like.

“Of course I care!” McJones says gruffly, throwing a glance in PBG’s direction. Then, gentler, “If I don’t look after you, who’s gonna?”

PBG sticks out his lower lip. “I’m old enough to look after myself, Stewart.”

“I know.”

The two of them proceed to have an entire conversation with just their eyes. Then, McJones shakes his head, giving an amused flicker of a smile. After a moment, he begins to make his way around the room and put out the torches. He moves slowly, unhurriedly, sending the room into a calm sort of shadow. PBG trails silently behind him, lending a hand wherever he can.

When they’re finished, McJones shoots Dean a half-hearted “’Night,” that Dean returns with only a nod. He and PBG slip carefully into the bedroom, and they close the door behind them with a soft bump. And then it’s just Dean, alone in the darkened room.

Just Dean and his stupid cot.

Great.

* * *

Things don’t get better after that weird moment Dean and McJones shared. In fact, everything somehow gets _worse_.

They don’t talk about it, obviously. McJones goes right on with his life like nothing ever happened. Like Dean didn’t totally feel up his scarred arm like a fucking creep. The whole incident changed absolutely nothing at all, and McJones is still keeping his sweet-ass distance from Dean. But the thing is, Dean’s so done at this point that he just gives up and does the same. He and McJones fall into a pattern of mutual avoidance, interacting only when they absolutely have to. It’s probably better this way, Dean thinks glumly.

But still. Still, though. Dean can’t stop himself from sometimes, deep down inside, just wanting to push McJones up against the nearest wall and kiss him until both their mouths are sore.

Regardless of it all, life goes on.

The next morning, McJones undoes Dean’s bandages to check out his wounds. After a brief inspection, McJones declares him healed enough to leave his cot prison and actually, y’know, start _doing_ things again, which is a fucking relief. Dean’s head still kinda hurts, but the pain’s gone way down overnight, and he’ll be fine as long as he’s careful to not strain himself too much too soon, McJones says. He’s well on his way to making a full recovery.

They’re prepping for the Nether now, which is kind of nerve-wracking. The Nether is serious shit. They have to be _absolutely_ sure that they’re ready before they cross the through the portal, or otherwise, they’re dead. They’re fucking dead, no two ways about it. The Nether is unforgiving; if you slip up there, you don’t get a second chance.

Their farm is pretty much good to go by this point, so food isn’t much of an issue anyone. The new areas of concern are their tools and armor. At the bare minimum, they need to get full sets of iron gear for all of them, and a few diamond swords are on the radar too. Really, it would be best if they were able to find enough diamond to upgrade their pickaxes and a fair amount of their armor too, but even PBG isn’t that good. Either way, it’s a bunch of super time- and resource-heavy tasks. Plus, there’s the not-so-simple matter of collecting the obsidian for the portal itself. They’ve got their work cut out for them, that’s for damn sure.

Also, another huge thing that has to get done is finally teaching the newbies the most important skill that they still lack: archery. As with everything, the regulars are varied in their weapon of choice—Dean being more of a hack-‘n-slash kind of guy himself—but they’re all at least somewhat proficient with a bow and arrow. It’s a necessity, especially in the Nether, where the abundance of flying, projectile-shooting monsters oftentimes makes melee combat impossible. So, one day not long after Dean’s creeper accident, McJones and PBG take the newbies out to get them up to speed.

Target practice is held around the side of the house, where they set up some kind of rudimentary firing range with pieces of paper tacked to tree trunks. Technically, Dean’s not part of the official, Jeff-sanctioned archery instruction team, but he heads out to watch for a while anyway, lured by the sound of intermittent twanging. Almost right away, Dodger reveals herself to be a natural archer, and that only becomes even clearer as she warms up to her bow over the course of the afternoon. Her form is near-perfect, McJones only having to make a few, minor adjustments, and her shots are shockingly precise for someone who’s only has a couple hours’ experience. Chad, on the other hand, spends most of his time crawling through the grass hunting for lost misfired arrows.

Once the newbies’ arms have gotten tired, the others take the opportunity to practice their own archery as well; they kinda put off making bows longer than they should’ve, so they’ve gotten a little rusty. They spend a while just aimlessly shooting their arrows and the shit, while the newbies sprawl out a safe distance away and cheer every time one of them lands a hit. Then, McJones and PBG draw lopsided bullseyes on their pieces of paper and have a shooting competition, which PBG wins by a technicality. Finally, as the afternoon starts to bleed away, they all head in to get back to what they were doing before. Dodger herself prances inside clutching her pockmarked paper target and beaming, while Chad just looks frustrated, wiping off his grass-stained knees. Behind them, PBG gloats about being the _archery tournament champ_ , despite the fact that five-sevenths of them didn’t even participate in his so-called tournament. All in all, it’s another great day.

 _Everything’s_ been really great for them, actually. Shockingly great. Sure, they’ve had a few setbacks here and there, but those are nothing compared to all the things they have going for them: Their newbies are smart, talented, and eager to learn. They have a surplus of food and raw materials. Hell, they even have potions to give them a leg-up in the Nether. This is shaping up to be one of their best worlds in a long time.

And then, two days later, everything falls apart.

It’s mid-evening, dusk having draped itself over the land like a curtain. They’ve grabbed dinner already, and they’re now all belowground in the mines, aiming to chunk out another hour or two of mining before they get too tired. They’re still searching for a bunch of shit, and really, when are they _not_ fucking mining anyway?

It’s not intensive branch mining, though, but something looser and more aimless. A few of them have buddied up to mine together, but Dean’s working alone for now. A little bit of solitude is kinda nice when you spend every waking hour around other people. And besides, it’s not like he’s _alone_ alone. As hums tunelessly to himself, rhythmically breaking through stone with his pickaxe, he hears the comforting sounds of his friends’ voices all around him.

They’re pretty deep by now—they’ve been tunneling down at a fairly high grade—and Dean’s starting to come across chunks of gold embedded in the rock. A little bit of lapis too. What they really need is a cave system, though. Something where there’s sure to be lava to make obsidian. Barry’s currently the keeper of their only diamond pick for this very reason; he’s the calmest under pressure and has the steadiest hands out of all of them, so the job of gathering obsidian always falls to him.

Laughter reverberates off the walls. Bubbly-sounding, so probably Jeff’s. Dean grins to himself. See, _this_ is what he likes about mining. This sensation of togetherness, of being a team, that wells up whenever they’re all working alongside each other. No stress, no pressure. Not like that fucking emerald shit from last time. Just a bunch of friends hanging out, getting stuff done, and—

There’s a sudden, bloodcurdling yell.

Dean flinches, every hair on his body pricking up in alarm. His adrenaline spikes, a sick twist in his gut. Jerking around, he cups a hand around his mouth. Starts to shout out, to ask what happened and if everyone’s okay.

But then his chest collapses.

His vision blurs. Everything goes cold. He can’t move. Fear races up his spine, cracking him into a thousand pieces. He’s imploding. He’s in shreds. There’s a black hole behind his ribs. A knife in his skull. Terror where his heart should be. Terror. Only terror. Piercing terror. In his eyes. In his blood. In his skin. In all of him.

But only for the span of a second. Just like that, the iciness falls back away. Feeling rushes back into him like a shockwave through his body, leaving him breathless and shaking.

“ _Chad!_ ” someone screams.

Dean’s lungs shrivel. “What?! No! _No!_ ”

His pickaxe slips from his hand, and he whirls, scrambling up the tunnel. He sprints through the twists and turns of their mine, his boots pounding against the ground in time with his slamming pulse. In an instant, he’s at the entrance to the mineshaft Chad was sharing with PBG. The others are there too, stumbling against him as they all shove their way inside. Their bodies move with a shared sense of dread wrapped around them like string.

At the very end of the mineshaft, they find PBG. Alone. There’s a gaping hole in the rock beside him, and he’s just staring at it, trembling ever so slightly. His eyes are hollow.

“Peebs—” Barry starts.

“He fell.” PBG’s voice is hushed, haunted. “He mined right into a ravine.”

“Oh _shit_.”

Chad. Their Chad. Dean wants to scream, can feel it wadding in his throat, but not a single sound leaves him. His head feels thick and foggy as he hovers there. Slowly, he takes a step forward, and then another. He staggers past PBG, who’s as still as a statue, to carefully peer through the hole. And the instant he does, his heart crumbles away to nothing.

Because it’s deep. It’s so _, so_ deep. A sheer drop hundreds of feet down into a crevasse of pure blackness, the only light source being a burbling lavafall pouring from the wall. 

There’s no way—

Chad didn’t have a chance.

Dean stumbles back, hands balling into fists, horror and bile rolling in his stomach. Beside him, Jeff leans forward to look down as well, and he sucks in a sharp, startled breath. “Holy crap,” he murmurs, paling, “that’s _really_ bad. Oh god.”   

 “It was so fast. The ground collapsed under him. He was right there next to me, and then he was just...gone.” Slowly, PBG wraps his arms around himself, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“...Jesus Christ,” Barry whispers from between his teeth, his face grim and shadowed.

Then, there comes a soft cry. They all turn. Dodger stands there, hanging back behind the rest of them. Her eyes are round, her mouth parted.

“He’s—he’s really—he actually—” The question shudders on her lips. “Chad...” a breath, “... _died_?”

Nobody answers her. None of them have the words. And all at once, understanding spills over her like an avalanche. Her chest expands with a gasping inhale. _“Fuck_ ,” she chokes wetly, and her fingers fist into her hair. She folds over, falling in on herself. “ _Fuck_.”

Tearing his gaze away from her, Jeff glances again through the gap. He breathes out a long sigh into the tight air.

“Dude. How the hell are we gonna be able to get down there? It’s such a long way, and if we screw up, we could die too. Maybe we should—”

“No, we _have_ to go, Jeff!” PBG bursts out, his voice splintering into raw shards. His eyes swim with pleading, unshed tears. “We have to. We can’t—we can’t just fucking _leave_ him there!”

Jeff’s eyebrows knit. “I know, I know. I just...I know.” He slides an arm around PBG’s shoulders, and PBG falls into him, face crumpling. “We’ll get him, Austin. I promise.”

For a long minute, they all stand rooted where they are. Nothing is said, because there’s nothing to be said. They just linger in silence, gutted by the sheer weight of what’s happened. Chad is dead. _Chad is dead_. One half of their beautiful newbie duo ripped away in less time than it takes to blink. The air is heavy and forlorn. Despondent. They barely have the strength to just stay upright.

The first death of a world is always uniquely devastating. It’s a wake-up call, a reminder that it’s not all fun and games here. A warning to never let their guards down completely, because death is real, and it’s coming for them.

All it takes is a second. A single, fateful second to change everything.

Finally, Jeff sighs again, unwinding himself from PBG and straightening up. “Well,” he begins, thin, “we should probably get moving now if we wanna be back in time to have a funeral tonight.”

“I’ll go with y’all,” Dean blurts, and Jeff’s eyes slide over tiredly.

“Okay. If you want.”

Dean shuffles closer to him and PBG. Barry and McJones watch vacantly from a few feet away. Between them, Dodger’s still got her palms pressed to her head, like she’s trying to block everything out.

“I guess us three will just head up, then.” Barry rubs his mouth. “Start—start digging the grave...”

“Sure.”

He, McJones, and, finally, Dodger start down the tunnel from whence they came, moving heavily with lowered heads and drooping shoulders. After a moment, McJones falters, twisting back to look at the others.

“...Be safe,” he says, quiet. Jeff nods woodenly. And then, they all set out to do what needs to be done.

It takes Jeff, Dean, and PBG an hour to get to the bottom of the ravine. It’s so horribly steep, and like Jeff said, one wrong move could send them plummeting to the very same fate as Chad. So they work slowly, carefully, digging a spiral staircase of sorts all the way down. It’s hard work, harder than anything they were doing back up in their mineshaft, and Dean’s so overwhelmed with exhaustion and misery that he could pass out at any moment. None of them say a single word from the moment they begin chipping through rock until they step out onto the ravine floor. Until they finally reach Chad.

As soon as they emerge from their makeshift staircase, he’s right there in front of them. Dean’s heart seizes when he catches sight of the crumpled form on the ground. Beside him, PBG whimpers, his fingers tangling together in a knot.

Chad is lying on his back towards one side of the ravine, dangerously close to the lavafall. His body isn’t overly gruesome; if not for the weird splay of his limbs and the unnatural angle of his neck, he might as well just be sleeping. His glasses have scattered off to the side, one of the lenses cracked. His sandy-blond hair is thrown across his forehead, and his eyes are shut, thank fucking god.

Slowly, Dean tilts his head to stare up at the hole in the ceiling of the ravine, far, far above them. It seemed massive when he was up there in the tunnel, but now, he can barely see the gap at all. If he didn’t know better, he might’ve just assumed it was a natural chink in the rock.

He looks back to Chad’s body, taking a few, wobbly steps closer. He studies Chad’s face, studies all the features that’ve become so familiar over the past weeks. And all of a sudden, he remembers what Chad said up on that mountain. How he went on and on about how glad he was to be here, about how every day was an adventure, about how much he loved being included.

Dean wonders, twistedly, if Chad had time to remember his own words as he fell. If he had time to feel them go sour on his tongue, to feel them blacken and crumble away to ash. Or were the only thoughts in his mind ones of panic as the cold, hard ground rushed up to meet him?

Fuck. Chad was so excited about everything. He was so happy. For god’s sake, he damn near _cried_ talking about how much these adventures meant to him. He shouldn’t have died, not like this.

He didn’t even live to see the Nether.

Dean’s chest squeezes, viselike. His fingers curl over his face, and he sinks down, breathing hard into his cupped hands. For a long moment, he’s drowning. He’s drowning alive.

“Dean...” PBG murmurs, then, and Dean feels the worry emanating from both him and Jeff. It helps yank him back to reality, out of the tumult of his own head. Slowly, dragging his palms down his cheeks, he pulls himself back up to his feet.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Let’s just—let’s get our boy outta here.”

By the time they return to the surface with Chad, the grave is dug and the tombstone build. The others have placed the cemetery a little ways away from the house, next to one of their oak trees. They’re standing in a somber huddle beneath the branches, but when Dean, Jeff, and PBG emerge from the mine, they hurry over. Barry and McJones immediately jump in to help carry Chad, but Dodger lingers a few feet back, her face ashen as she takes in the sight of his corpse.

The five of them carefully lower Chad into his grave, respectfully arranging him to lay flat with his arms by his sides. Then, they step back, forming a tight semicircle around the hole in the earth. A sick sense of déjà vu comes over Dean as he stares down at Chad’s slack face and broken neck. Here they are again, having another fucking funeral. Here they are again, burying one of their friends. It feels like just yesterday, it was Jeff in that tomb. And before that, McJones. And before that, their last world’s newbie. And before _that_ , two worlds ago now, Lucah. And Barry and Luke and McJones again and—and _when the hell will this ever end?_ When will they be free from this endless cycle of death and rebirth? Haven’t they earned their happy ending yet?

Dean clamps his hand over his mouth, his fingernails digging into his cheek. It hurts, but he doesn’t stop, trying to lose himself in any other feeling besides sorrow. He’s only vaguely aware of Dodger approaching, of the grass crunching beneath her bare feet as she slips around to stand between him and McJones. After a moment, he hears her whisper, “I—I felt something. When I heard him scream. It was like I was being stabbed right—right here.” Dean glances over briefly to see her touch her chest. Beside her, McJones nods.

“I know,” he replies softly. “We all did. Don’t worry about it for now; I’ll explain later.”

They don’t always sense it when one of them goes. But when they do, it’s the worst thing Dean’s ever felt in his life. Death is cold where it touches them. Where it wraps its bony fingers around them. Shards of ice piercing through their heart. A pit in their chests so dark and deep it feels endless. There’s nothing else like it. It’s the true sensation of loss.

Right then, PBG speaks up. “So, I guess we’ll...” he begins, and he blinks hard, his voice dying away to nothing. He’s pressed up against Jeff once more, their shoulders braced together. “...Dodger,” he tries again, “whenever we do this, we all like to—to, I dunno, say something. To honor him. Or whoever.”

“Like a eulogy?” Dodger asks.

“Kinda. It can be whatever you want. Just say something.”

Another moment passes. The wind blows. Chad remains as still and cold as his tombstone.

“I’ll start,” McJones says finally. He rubs his eyes beneath his glasses. “Chad was...indispensable for Todd’s quest. I’m kind of amazed at how good he was at understanding all the riddles. Even though he had no experience with this stuff, he figured out exactly where we had to go before the rest of us could even start brainstorming. And also, I can’t even put into words how much he helped me during the quest itself. He worked through the details with me, he had my back—all of our backs, really—he let me bounce ideas off of him, and he...he was just such an enormous help. I may have been the team captain, but I mean it when I say I could _not_ have done it without him. He was the best first mate a captain could ask for.”

The words catch on the air, swirling around all of them. McJones bends, digs a hand into one of the piles of dirt surrounding the open grave, and pulls out a fistful of soil. Then, he gently tosses it into the hole, sending it scattering across Chad’s skin and clothes like rain.

On the other side of the semicircle, Barry jumps in next: “Chad was always willing to go along with whatever. I don’t think I ever heard him complain _once_ this whole time. He was a real team player. It didn’t matter if he wasn’t good at it or if he didn’t know how to do it or anything. No matter what, he wanted to give it his all. He was a damn hard worker.”

One handful of dirt.

Then PBG, still shaking just a little: “M-Me and Chad went on an adventure together this one time. We were just walking along the river looking for sugarcane, and it was kinda boring, honestly, but it ended up being fun ‘cause he was there. He was a really funny guy, and he listened to me and cared what I had to say. And he even saved me when we got attacked by an enderman. I had a great time hanging out with him that day. It was the f-first time I actually _really_ talked to him, y’know. I wish I got to know him better. I didn’t go on the quest with him, and so I missed out on all that time, and—” PBG shakes his head. “I just never really got to know him, and I—I—I regret that like hell. I’m so sorry, buddy.”

One handful of dirt.

Then Jeff, his fingers curled around his elbows: “I guess Barry kinda said this already, but Chad was always super excited to learn. Even way back at the beginning, when I was first giving the Talk to him and Dodger, he asked me all these questions, and he was just, like, so genuinely interested in hearing the answers. It was really cool, ‘cause not everyone’s like that. Not everyone wants to understand just for the sake of understanding.”

One handful of dirt.

Then Dean, his throat burning. His fingers press into his palms, working in and out, in and out. “Our sweet boy,” he says, quavering. “We lost him. God fucking damn it.” He lifts his head to look up into the dark sky, hazy clouds swirling far above. “You could just tell how much he loved being here with us. He was so happy all the time about literally fucking _everything_. It—god, it made _me_ happy to see him so happy. And I think everyone else felt the same too.” His chest feels taut again, like he can’t breathe. “Fuck the world for taking that away from us. He could’ve been so much. He should’ve lived.”

One handful of dirt.

And finally, Dodger. Her chin is tucked into her chest, her arms wrapped around her middle. “Chad,” she begins unsurely. “My fellow greenhorn. My partner in not knowing what the hell’s going on. We had so many good times together, and I swear, I remember them all forever. You—you were good—” Her voice breaks, and she pauses for a moment to catch herself. “You were so good. Rest in peace, my dude. I love you, and I’ll m-miss you. I hope we can meet again someday.” She swallows back a whimper, and in goes her handful of dirt.

And that makes six. Six pieces of the land, imbued with as much love and regret as they can give. It’s not enough, but it’s all they ever have to offer.

They look around at each other. After a moment, Barry steps free of the semicircle, picking up one of the shovels that’s lying beside the grave. Dean stumbles forward and takes up the other. In unison, he and Barry each scoop forth a mass of dirt from one of the piles, driving the heads of their shovels down with their heels. Barry immediately turns and tosses the dirt into the hole, but Dean hesitates. His hands tremble around the wooden handle of his shovel. He stares down at Chad’s lifeless body, at his growing pallor and limp muscles. At the thin layer of soil already obscuring his face. And then, in one, jerking motion, Dean hurls the dirt into the open grave with all his might and turns away to start the cycle over again.

The steady sound of metal crunching through soil fills the air. Slowly, shovelful by shovelful, Chad is buried, becoming a part of the earth. Dean’s vision swims, blurs, and suddenly the tears come streaking down his cheeks like fire. He jerks his forearm across his face, giving a hard sniff, but he doesn’t let himself stop moving.

It’s so unfair. It’s so fucking unfair that the newbies don’t always get to come back. They just get such a shit deal, being thrown into this ridiculous existence without ever being offered even a shred of mercy. And yet, they’re still so brave, so tough and determined and resilient. It wasn’t even Chad’s fault that he fell; it literally could have been _any_ of them. He made it all this way only to fall victim to some stupid bad luck. But it doesn’t matter. This could be it for him. Forever.

It better fucking not be, though. Chad better end up being one of those lucky newbies who gets the chance to come back, like Lucah and Ian and Jesse. They just better goddamn see him again, no matter how long they have to wait. He deserves a second chance. He really, really does.

The grave is nearly full by now. As Dean and Barry empty the final clumps of dirt onto it, Dean notices something out of the corner of his eye, and he turns to look. It’s Todd, floating far off in the distance, his cape blustering around his shoulders. For once, he doesn’t vanish the instant Dean sees him. Instead, he just stays there, hovering. Watching.

Maybe he’s paying his respects too, Dean thinks.

Once the hole is completely filled in, the ground leveled back off, he and Barry step back. They study the finished tomb with a cold sense of finality. It still feels surreal to think that Chad was talking and laughing with them just a mere couple of hours ago, and now he’s decomposing six feet under.

Finally, they move on to the last part of their funeral rites: writing the epitaph for the headstone. McJones produces a small, wooden placard and sets to mounting it in the center of the cross. Usually, this is the part where they all spend a while tossing out ideas for what to put, but very instant McJones steps back, Dodger’s there taking his place, her hand stuttering as she writes across the sign. After a few moments, she trips away, and the others lean in to read her crowding, slanted letters:

 

_R.I.P Chad_

_He lit up our world._

               

No one else could’ve put it better.

“He loved this place,” Dean breathes, rubbing his face again. “I guess—I guess it’s good that this is where he gets to stay.”

“Yeah,” PBG agrees.

And then, with nothing left to say or do, the seven of them minus one go back inside.

* * *

The rest of the evening passes in a sort of dreamlike blur. Dean sits at the table with PBG and Barry, none of them really doing much of anything besides trying to work through all the heavy things they’re feeling. Sometimes they talk, but mostly they don’t. Just _being_ is enough for now.

After a long, long while, Dean starts to feel the first cracks forming in the chain of despair coiled around his neck. He feels better. Not a lot better, but a little. Better than he did standing over Chad’s corpse, his eyes searing and flooded over. He doesn’t usually get to the point where he actually needs to cry, but when he does, he can’t fight it. It’s better to just let it happen like that. It brings catharsis, which really helps this whole process.

The five stages of grief go pretty quick by now. It’s partially borne of experience—you can’t linger in it forever when you’ve done this a thousand times and always come out the other side okay. Yes, Chad is dead, may he rest in peace, and yes, it’s awful, but it’s not like this is anything new to them. Their hearts bear the scars of a thousand deaths before this. They’re well acquainted with this kind of pain. And also, as always, they know that losing themselves to grief is literally not an option. They have to get back to it eventually; the world isn’t going to stop spinning just for them.

Dean thinks about this, and the cracks in his grief widen. He knows when he wakes up tomorrow, he’ll feel like shit. The absence of Chad will sit like a boulder on his chest, and all he’ll want to do is stay in bed forever. But he also knows that he’ll get up anyway. He’ll grab breakfast and bid good morning to his friends. Then, he’ll probably head down into the mines. He and the others will keep gathering resources, and soon enough, they’ll be ready for the Nether. Chad will still be dead, but life will go on. _They’ll_ go on. They have no other choice but to roll with the punches and push through. It’s a grim truth, but there’s also a strange sense of solace to it.

Then, Dean’s mind turns to Dodger. Because she’s a newbie—their _only_ newbie now. She doesn’t understand the harshness of their reality like the rest of them do. She isn’t familiar with their crazy circle of life. She doesn’t know that she can’t give up, no matter how horrible it gets. And so, she’s the one they have to worry about.

When they came back inside after the funeral, she immediately broke away and darted upstairs without a word. The rest of them just let her be, because everyone grieves differently; some, like PBG, want to be surrounded by other people so they don’t get lost in their own heads, while others just want to be alone, like McJones, who retreated to the bedroom to lie down. But nobody’s seen or heard from her since then, which is a little concerning. So, after a few minutes of deliberation, Dean heads upstairs to check on her.

He finds her standing barefoot on the balcony, staring solemnly out into the night as the moon rises over the prairie. Her chin is resting in her hands, and her hair is hanging loose down her back. Watching her, Dean gets a sudden stab of fear in his chest. Because—is this it? Is this the moment they lose her to the relentless grip of fear, just like they lost their last newbie? God, he fucking hopes not. But he can’t forget the way she fell apart in the mines when it finally hit her that Chad was really dead.

Heart in his throat, he approaches her slowly, stepping from out of the shadows of the second-floor room into the faint moonlight of the balcony. “Dodge?” he calls out hesitantly.

The slight stiffening of her shoulders is the only indication that he’s startled her. She twists to glance back.

“Oh, Dean. Hi,” she says, voice hushed.

“Hey.”

In a few, short steps, he’s beside her at the edge of the balcony, looking down at her. She blinks back up at him with eyes dark and red-rimmed. And he's struck, in an instant, by just how shattered she is. He’s never seen her like this before. It’s as if she’s a mere shadow of the Dodger he knows. She’s always been so upbeat, so dauntless. Despite all she’s faced thus far, she’s never, ever seemed fragile in the slightest. Not until now.

“Are you okay?”

It takes Dodger a long moment to reply. “...I will be, I think. I just—I can’t believe he’s actually _gone_.” She shakes her head. “Just like that.”

“Just like that,” Dean echoes.

“I feel so fucking guilty that I didn’t see it happen. I keep thinking like—I dunno. Like maybe if I was there, I could’ve done something. Even though I know that’s not true. There was no way _anyone_ could’ve saved him, much less me, the _newbie_.”

She rubs her face with the heel of her hand, and a wave of compassion washes over Dean. This has got to be so damn hard for her. He remembers the trauma of witnessing _his_ first death all too well. At the time, back in the very first world, they didn’t even know that anyone would ever be coming back. They’d thought it was all permanent. That those who died were dead for good.

For few minutes, they stand together without a word. The night air is still and silent, and the rare absence of rustling grass sounds strange to Dean’s ears. The darkness below is illuminated by the soothing glow of torches arranged to keep away the monsters. In the distance, the mountaintops stand like faint, inky smears against the sky.

“Y’know, it was beautiful what you guys did down there,” Dodger says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

“What?”

“The funeral. It was so amazing how you guys all jumped into action as soon as he died. You and Jeff and Peebs willingly risked your lives so you could give him a proper burial. And McJones and Barry were working just as hard on the grave up here. It was like—everyone came together in that time of need. You all came together to honor his life in the most beautiful way.” She swallows, tugging her fingers through her hair. “It was really good to have that closure too. Even though his death was so sudden, the funeral gave it... _finality_ , I guess you could say.”

Dean nods in understanding, resting his forearms atop the balcony railing. The closure is a big part of why they do what they do. When all is said and done, it’s nice to have been able to say one, final goodbye, even if the person wasn’t around to hear it.

“And—” Dodger continues, “—and also, it’s kinda comforting, in a sense. Because I know that if I die, I’ll get a big memorial like that too. You guys won’t forget me.”

“Dude, no, of course we wouldn’t. You deserve only the best,” Dean assures her, although his heart lurches violently at the thought of her lifeless body crumpled at the bottom of a tomb. Beside him, she nods slightly, letting out a quiet sigh. Then, as Dean studies her, he sees something in her face shift.

“But...” she starts and trails off.

“Yeah?”

She opens her mouth again, wavering. Her eyebrows are knitted together. “I just—and maybe this is a horrible thing to think—but—”

She sucks in a sharp breath.

“—But I just keep thinking about how there’s so much still out there that Chad isn’t going to get to experience now. And I really, _really_ don’t want that to happen to me too. I want—I want more than anything to be able to keep going. I want to help you guys build the portal and go to that Nether place you keep talking about and fight crazy monsters and see the world and—and—and—”

Dodger lifts her head, and her voice suddenly sharpens. “I want to win. That’s what I want. I know I probably won’t, ‘cause I suck. But I want to be able to try. I don’t want to just die like Chad did. It wasn’t his fault, I know, but I—I don’t want to go out without a fight.”

Her gaze catches hold of Dean’s with startling force. There’re tears glittering in her eyes, but behind them, there’s fire too. A blazing fire ignited deep within her.

“Fuck, Dean,” she says, gasping a little with it. “I want to _live_.”

In that moment, standing there with her on the balcony, her words hovering in the tranquil, night air, Dean knows that Dodger’s ride or die. He knows it deep in his bones. She’s not going to fall apart on them. They aren’t going to lose her. No, she’s going to be right there with them every step of the way. She’s going to fight.

And despite everything, a tiny smile worms its way onto Dean’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's interesting about this story that I realized while writing it is that is that the whole gimmick of Hardcore is that death is permanent, but if you set Hardcore in the real world, it reverses: The notable thing is that death _isn’t_ permanent. 
> 
> (But only for some people.)
> 
> Also, that scene where McJones sits around in a tank top and sews clothes is the worst, most self-indulgent thing I’ve ever written in my life, good god. Literally he wore a tank top _one_ time in _one_ picture on his Twitter, and that was all it took for me to completely run away with the idea & start imagining it as a classic McJones outfit. (And also I have no idea where the idea that he sews came from. I just know I love it.)
> 
> See you Friday!


	8. Part Eight

###### Part Eight

The next day is just as bad as Dean expects, especially the part where they all wake to Chad’s empty bed in the morning. But they drag themselves up and get going anyway, pushing aside the ache in their hearts. It’ll get smaller and more bearable with each hour that goes by. They just have to power through.

Besides, there’s stuff to be done.

They’re nearing a month in this world by now—right on schedule. At this point, it’s full speed ahead; no more carefree adventures to gather wood and slaughter animals, no more dicking around with starter tools and weapons. Amateur hour is over.

The second full day after Chad’s untimely demise, the six of them make the journey back into the mines to pick up where they left off on finding obsidian. It’s a little bit of a challenge because they have to reroute all their tunnels so as to avoid digging into that same ravine, but with a good ten or twenty minutes of careful figuring, they get it all worked out. And not long after that, Jeff stumbles into a massive, unexplored cave system, just like they wanted.

It goes pretty well from there on out: Nobody else dies, they only get lost twice, Barry only gets first-degree burns trying to mine the obsidian from the lava pool, PBG and McJones only get into one and a half fights—really, nothing to complain about. Plus, at one point, Dean impulsively wanders down a small, unexplored offshoot of the cave system and runs smack-dab into a vein of diamond. Which means he gets bragging rights for at _least_ the rest of the day.

As they make their way back up to the surface, their bags packed to the brim with gleaming obsidian—and, in Dean’s case, gleaming diamond—PBG suggests that they just go ahead and make the portal while they’re at it. Nobody has any objection to that, so they pile outside to get building. Because the land around them is largely empty, offering no particularly convenient place to put the portal, they decide to just slap it right in the middle of the prairie, far enough away from the house that it hopefully won’t bother them.

Working in unison, they start to cobble together that usual rectangular frame shape. It’s always a more difficult task than it seems like it should be. Obsidian is hard, brittle, and has a nasty tendency to break into dangerously jagged pieces if you’re too rough handling it. It takes patience and care to build with, which are two traits Dean does not have an abundance of. So he’s not a huge help, but he tries. At least, he tries until PBG tells him point-blank that he’s fucking everything up and _get outta here, we can do it ourselves!_

When they finally get the frame done, they haul it up onto its side portrait-style and anchor it securely in the ground. It’s actually pretty damn big; Dean would eyeball it to be a good eight by ten feet at the least. He wonders, not for the first time, why exactly it needs to be that size specifically. Surely they could afford to make it a little smaller, right? It’s a royal pain in the ass to get all that obsidian, so it’d be fantastic if they could cut down a little.

“That’s it?” Dodger’s saying, her hands resting on her hips. “That’s all we gotta do to make this magical portal to hell?”

“Yup. Getting the obsidian and building the frame are the hard parts. Now we just have to light it. Who’s got the flint and steel?” Jeff asks.

“I do,” Dean replies, reaching into his bag.

“You wanna do it, Dean? Or—”

“Hell yeah, I got this. Back up, y’all.”

Dean kneels down at the bottom edge of the portal frame, gripping the flint and steel tightly, one in each hand. He holds the flint up to the obsidian and leans back as far as he can, wincing reflexively; he’s singed his eyebrows more than once doing this. Then, with a quick snap of his wrist, he strikes the flint with the firesteel as hard as he can. Out of his cracked eyelid, he sees a tiny spark catch on the obsidian, and he has just enough time to stumble back, cursing, before the whole thing ignites.

 In a fraction of a second, flames roar up the edges of the frame. Even from several yards back, Dean can feel the heat right there on his skin. Tendrils of fire lick over the jagged surface of the obsidian, reaching out for each other and meeting in the middle. Then, just as the entire center of the frame is engulfed by a curtain of orange, the whole thing warps. It settles back, twisting inward, folding in on itself like a vortex. Right before their eyes, the fire vanishes. And in its place emerges a semi-transparent, purple void, undulating like a smoky kind of water.

The regulars are pretty blasé about the whole thing. It’s still kind of neat in a vague way, Dean would admit, but mostly he’s thinking about how damn _loud_ it is. The otherworldly sounds of hell already beginning to emanate from within it—the distorted, bassy rumbles and metallic echoes—are raucous and abrasive, like nails on a chalkboard. It’s awful. If only it were quiet like other portals they use in different kinds of worlds, they’d be able to keep it inside their house for easy access and everything. But the sheer clangor would drive them all crazy in about ten seconds, so they have no choice but to stick it, like, two-hundred thousand miles from the house. God.

But Dodger, predictably, couldn’t be any more thunderstruck. Her eyeballs look about to fall out of her skull. “...Holy shitballs,” she breathes after a moment. “Can I touch it?”

Jeff nods. “Sure, go ‘head. Just don’t stand inside it.”

Barely giving Jeff time to finish talking, she darts up to the portal and shoves her fingers into it. She’s so much braver than she used to be. It actually makes Dean really proud. The thick, violet fog ripples around her hand, gliding outward in rings like a pond after you chuck a stone into it. And after a second, she yelps, jumping back and tearing her arm away.

“Oh god! That’s weird as fuck, dude! It feels like—like—” She flaps her hand, gaping. “Oh Jesus. We’re supposed to walk _into_ that?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks; it only takes a few seconds to pass through,” PBG assures her, but she just shrugs, giving a skeptical frown. Then, with that out of the way, they all head back inside to get moving on the next set of tasks.

The fact that the portal is finally up and running pushes them into high gear. Now that, in theory, nothing’s stopping them from venturing off to the Nether, it feels like the clock is ticking. That sense of urgency needles at them all, spurring them to work even faster and harder than before.

Over the next week, the six of them throw themselves into a whirlwind of labor. Jeff and PBG build a little hut around the portal so it’s not completely out in the open; Jeff also leads Dodger in slaughtering about half of their animals for food, which Dodger is a little _too_ happy about, considering her previous excitement about caring for them; McJones and PBG go exploring the ravine and return with literal armfuls of ore; and Dean himself spends one of the days just making and repairing armor with Barry, and by hour six, he starts going a little bit nuts.

 _Everyone_ goes a little bit nuts, really. They can’t work at maximum efficiency for too long without a little bit of sanity slippage. Or a lot bit. Case in point being, Dean and Barry spend at least a half an hour arguing over whether or not fucking a ghost would be considered necrophilia. Because technically the person’s dead, _yeah_ , but it’s not really the same as a literal corpse. Dodger gets involved too at one point, but even with her help, they’re not able to come to any definitive conclusion, which is pretty disappointing. Dean never knew he needed the answer to that question so badly.

Also, not long after the big ghost-shtupping debate, Jeff comes in and sets a hunk of pork to cook in the furnace, making a huge stinkin’ deal about how it’s _his_ food and _nobody better touch it_ and _yada yada yada_. So naturally, the moment he leaves the room, Dean steals the pork and eats every last bit of it, giggling like a madman the entire time. Jeff’s anguished wail when he comes back to find his precious meat gone without a trace is both tragic and absolutely hilarious.

McJones and PBG certainly aren’t immune to the chaos either. They show up a little later, fresh out of the mines with their pickaxes slung over their shoulders and snickering over some inside joke, and they plant themselves down at the table to split an apple. Jeff is still hunkered by the now-empty furnace, looking like he wants to cry, but none of them pay him any attention.

“You know what I really hate? Actually getting back to the portal when we’re trying to leave,” PBG’s saying, his chin propped on his fist. “Walking all that way takes so frickin’ long. We should just bring stuff to make a second portal and get the heck out of there as soon as we have what we need.”

“Well, it doesn’t exactly—” McJones starts, lifting a finger.

“I mean, it’s not like we can’t get more obsidian. I found at least four separate lava lakes in the caves today.”

McJones lets his hand drop. He’s been unsuccessfully trying to get a word in edgewise for the past five minutes, and he’s grown more and more visibly frustrated with each time one of them just steamrolls right over the beginning of his sentence. It’s actually pretty funny.

Barry nods as he polishes an iron bootcover. “Yeah, that’s a good point, actually. We could save a lot of time that way.”

“And plus it’s really nerve-wracking trying to find your way back, ‘cause you’ve been in the Nether for, like, a whole day by that point, and you’ve fought so many monsters and spent so long searching for all this crap, and you’re _so close_ to being safe again, and you just wanna let your guard down, so you do, and then you die.” PBG sighs.

“That’s a nice thought, but—” McJones tries again.

“That actually happened to me once,” Barry blurts, eyes widening from behind his sunglasses. “Remember? We were literally ten feet from the portal, and then one of those weird magma slime things jumped on my head from out of nowhere and killed me.”

Dean slams his fist on the table, rattling the armor sitting in front of him. “God, I do remember that! That sucked balls, dude. I was so fucking mad.”

“Yeah, I’m _still_ pissed.”

“But building another portal wouldn’t—”

“The less time spent in the Nether, the better, as far as I’m concerned,” PBG grumbles in agreement.

“— _But distance in the Nether and distance on the surface aren’t equivalent_ ,” McJones finally manages to break in, his voice more than a little strained. “If you walk a foot in the Nether, you’ve gone something like twenty-five or twenty-six feet up here. So going through a different portal than the one we came through would put us who-the-heck-knows-where. We’d be miles from home.”

PBG blinks at him. “…Oh. Right. I forgot about that. Never mind, then. In that case, I don’t guess it’d be worth it.”

“I doubt it would. Even if we had a compass, we’d still just be trading one risk for another. Although, I suppose it’s not a bad idea to bring extra portal supplies in case ours gets destroyed somehow…”

He trails off thoughtfully. PBG takes an oversized bite of his apple. Dean leans over a stained chestplate, closely inspecting it for any dents or punctures. Behind them, the furnace crackles to life with the sound of Jeff finally getting over himself and starting to cook a fresh slice of meat.

“—Oh man, you guys!” PBG says abruptly, snapping his fingers. “I just thought of something! What if—what if we went out and got some horses and then _rode_ ‘em into the Nether?” He grins excitedly. “Then we could get around faster, and plus we’d look cool as hell!”

“Yeah, we’ll get right on that. Just let me know when you find a single horse in this entire prairie,” McJones mutters.

“Okay, what about pigs, then? We’ve got plenty of those to ride. What do you think of that?”

McJones squints at him. “I think Mom dropped you on your head when you were a baby.”

“Come on, it’s a good idea!”

“How do you figure? Pigs are slow. And low to the ground. And uncontrollable. As soon as they got scared, they’d run us right into a pool of lava.”

“Well.” PBG pouts for a moment, rolling his half of the apple around in his hands. “I mean, at least then we’d get free cooked pork.”

And that’s the end of that discussion, because McJones laughs so hard he has to step outside to collect himself.

That’s how it goes for a while. It’s armor and swords and pickaxes and mining, mining, and more mining. It’s torches and arrows and a constantly-dwindling supply of iron and coal. It’s farming and slaughtering and fighting over turns at the furnaces and crafting tables. It’s getting so deep in the details that they completely forget about the big picture. It’s their exhausted, overworked brains turning to mush. It’s madness, above all, but it’s a productive kind of madness.

Also, in the meantime, Dean has several more questionable dreams about McJones and one very unquestionable, leaves-nothing-to-the-imagination dream, which is...well, it is what it is. Things are just the same as they always are, really. McJones is still gorgeous and completely out of Dean’s league; Dean is still plagued with a lot of confusing and guilty feelings; Dodger is still awesome, and Dean still loves her to bits—not much has changed. Life goes on.

However many days later, the six of them find themselves crowded into the main room of the house, all together for the first time in who knows how long. Dean and Barry are back at it fixing armor again; McJones is sitting at the head of the table and sewing at a feverish pace; PBG and Jeff are shoving up against each other at one of the big chests, PBG _hic_ cing intermittently from a sudden bout of hiccups like he always gets; and Dodger is baking a metric fuckton of bread, bushels upon bushels of wheat cut fresh from the farm scattered around her. They’re all shouting over each other in more stupid conversations, and the decibel level is rising exponentially with each passing minute.

Then, all of a sudden, Jeff’s straightening up from the chests and calling out, his voice cutting through the din, that they’ll be good to go to the Nether tomorrow. And the slap-happy, stir-crazy kind of high that’s been hovering over them immediately dissipates.

“Woah, woah, _tomorrow?_ ” Dean says, nearly dropping the diamond helmet in his hands. “You—you might wanna slow your fucking roll there, buddy. Don’t we still have, like, a ton of shit to do?”

“I mean, I don’t think so. We’ve been working for almost two weeks now. We’ve got plenty of food—”

“I’m on it, Cap’n!” Dodger interjects, pulling a steaming loaf of bread from the furnace and holding it up.

“—Yeah, thanks, Dodge. And we’re good on gear and swords and everything too, right?”

Barry nods. “Yep. Dean and I have, like, four more things to repair, and then we’ll be done.”

“So.” Jeff shrugs a tad uncertainly. “I don’t know what else there is to even do at this point. Unless we wanted to try to get even more diamond so we could have _full_ diamond armor...”

“I really doubt that’d be worth it. Iron gear is almost as good as diamond, and with all the time and effort and resources it would take to go mining for that much, it’d just be diminishing returns,” McJones puts in, rolling his fists on the tabletop.

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Seems fine to me.”

A couple of people murmur their assent. Dean looks around the room, his eyebrows furrowing. Already, that familiar knot of stress is starting to tighten in his gut. Shit’s about to go down, and he’s not ready. They’ve been here for over a fucking month, and yet it still feels too soon for this. It always feels too soon. There’s never enough time.

“Well, I guess in that case, we should really get to sleep early tonight,” PBG remarks. Looking to Dodger, he explains, “When we go to the Nether, we try to get everything we need in one trip ‘cause going back and forth isn’t really convenient. It usually ends up happening anyway, but we try to avoid it whenever we can. So we have to pull all-nighters sometimes, and you’ll wanna be well-rested for that.”

“Gotcha.” Dodger nods, her knotted bow of hair bouncing. Then: “Wait, why don’t you guys just make a second base in the Nether? Wouldn’t that be easier?”

“See, that’s what we thought too,” Dean cuts in, “but it turns out you can’t sleep in the Nether. Like, it doesn’t matter how tired you are, you literally _cannot_ fall asleep. Trust me, we’ve tried. It’s fucking awful.”

“There’s no day-night cycle, so your circadian rhythm gets screwed,” McJones adds.

“You mean, like, the sun doesn’t move in the sky?”

“There isn’t a sky. At least, not one that I’m aware of.”

“...Huh?” Dodger says.

McJones sighs. “Oh, forget it. I think maybe you should just wait and see, Dodger. It’s pointless to try to explain it to you beforehand.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Barry mutters, and McJones shoots him an irritated look. Dean breathes out a chuckle. After a few moments, a grin splits PBG’s face.

“Ooooh, I’m _nervous_!” he squeals, giggling behind his fingers. “But I’m kinda excited too!”

Jeff smiles fondly and thumbs his swoop of hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, same. But we still have some super important stuff to take care of, so we gotta hurry up.”

And they do. Over the rest of the afternoon, they put the finishing touches on all their work, wrapping up their hectic week. Jeff does some last-minute tending to the farm, and with his help, Dodger starts to sort through all of the food; Dean and Barry stow away the armor and tools in their respective chests; PBG goes out to get a shitload of wood; and, after getting done with his sewing, McJones putters around and yells about not being able to find his paperboy hat for a while. Dean doesn’t know why he even bothers. It’s not like he really wears it that often anyway, and he sure as hell isn’t going to bring it to the Nether. He does look damn cute in it, though. Once he finds it—kicked carelessly under his bed—and cocks it proudly on his head, he plunks down to give each of their shields a fun little design using their extra dye and wool.

When they’re finally, finally done late in the evening, they stand together in the middle of the room, looking around at the plentiful fruits of their labor: neatly organized chests, polished and glowing armor, brand-new tools, enough food to feed an army, and an excess of general building supplies. But before they turn in for the night, pleased with all they’ve accomplished, they elect to do one, last thing in preparation: dividing up the potions they got from Todd’s quest.

McJones and PBG fetch the bottles and line them up on the edge of the table. “So, again, we’ve got weakness, regeneration, two fire resistances, leaping, healing, and slowness,” McJones rattles off, pointing at each one in turn. His accent comes out strong on the word _again_. _A_ - _gyin_ , it sounds like.

“Uh, question: What’s the difference between healing and regeneration?” Dodger asks. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

Jeff nods. “Yeah, technically they do have the same effect, but the difference is in _how_ they do it.” He rolls his shoulders back, giving a flash of a smile. “See, the healing potion helps you instantly, but it only has a small amount of, like, life-giving power or whatever. The regen, on the other hand, does a lot more, but it kicks in over time. So if you’re, like, cornered in the middle of battle and you’re about to die, you should take a healing potion for the instant effect. If you try to take a regen potion, you’ll get killed because it doesn’t work quickly enough. The regens are for when you’re hurt but not actively being attacked. Make sense?”

“Yeah, actually. Wow. Thanks.” Dodger blinks, impressed.

Jeff’s the potion-brewing master of the family. McJones isn’t bad either, and he’s able to be a pretty good assistant, but Jeff’s clearly the most skilled with a brewing stand. One time, he actually even managed to rig up theirs to make a bunch of hard cider from apples, bread, and sugar. Nobody had any idea how he managed that, but the cider was delicious, and they all took an evening off to play some poker and get totally blitzed. That was a good night. It wasn’t a good morning when they woke up, but it was a good night. Of course, Jeff wasn’t always so talented; early on, he struggled a lot with all the complicated steps that potion-making entails. But by now, after worlds and worlds of practice, he’s basically a witch. His cooking skills lend themselves perfectly to brewing. 

They each have their niches, the regulars. It’s why they make such a good team.

“Any other questions?” McJones asks. After a brief pause, he nods definitively. “Well, let’s have at it, then.”

PBG looks down at the floor, chewing on his lip. “There are seven potions, so...I guess someone has to take two.”

Immediately, the air goes heavy.

“Rip,” Dean mumbles.

And then there’s silence. Darkness, cold and unforgiving, creeps into the depths of their chests. Grief presses down on their hearts like a stone. For a long, weighty moment, none of them make eye contact. None of them move.

At last, Jeff’s the one to break the quiet. “I think the people who went on the quest should get to pick first,” he says. “‘Cause they did all the work and stuff.”

“Yeah, that’s fair,” PBG agrees, and just like that, the coldness vanishes, the moment passes, and they can all breathe easy again.

Lazily stretching his arms over his head, Dean approaches the neat row of potions alongside Dodger and McJones. Dodger snatches up the crimson healing potion in less time than it takes to blink and holds it territorially to her chest. McJones snags one of the fire resistance potions, and Dean almost picks the other one for himself, but then he takes a second to think realistically about the whole thing. And it occurs to him that even if he actually managed to remember he had the potion with him after falling into lava—which is already unlikely in itself, considering he’d probably be screaming his head off in a blind panic—he’d _never_ be able to down the whole thing before burning to a crisp. So, reluctantly, he decides on the regen potion instead.

Barry chooses, for whatever reason, to take the leaping potion, and after that, PBG and Jeff go rock-paper-scissors for the other fire resistance potion. First round, PBG wins with scissors to paper. Second round, they tie with scissors. And then Jeff wins twice in a row by throwing rock, netting him the potion. It’s both astounding and completely unsurprising that PBG’s strategy was to just keep going scissors and hope it worked out for him. He sulks and whines about how he’s going to die because everyone else took all the good shit and then finally grabs up both the potion of slowness and the potion of weakness.

“You can throw them at the blazes or something. Could help,” Barry suggests, but PBG just harrumphs.

The six of them take the time to put their potions safely away in their bags and do some final rearranging of their stuff for tomorrow. They’ll want to get up and get out, so it’s better to have everything all set to go beforehand. Once they’re done, they close up shop for the night and start getting ready to hit the sack. Immediately, PBG yawns overdramatically and loudly informs everyone that he’s _super exhausted_ and starts to scamper off towards the bedroom. But before he can escape—

“Hang on, Austin. I gotta talk to you,” McJones calls, rising from his spot at the table.

PBG groans, his eyes rolling so far back that only the whites show, but he stops anyway and waits obediently as McJones hurries over to him.

“ _Whaaaat_ , Stewart?” he drones.

McJones stares at him for a moment, arms folded and eyebrows raised pointedly. Finally, he shakes his head. “...I hate to say it, but I think you might be our number one hazard in the Nether.”

“Shut up!” PBG cries.

“Look, I—most of the problems we have there have to do with the pigmen coming after us, and that usually only happens because _you_ aggro them.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I won’t do that this time, I promise. Sheesh.” PBG squirms, tries to sneak away, but McJones has him cornered.

“No, I’m serious. Do whatever you need to do to make sure that doesn’t happen tomorrow. Leave your sword here and take two shields. Tie your hands behind your back. Wear a straitjacket, for all I care. But just—just _—do not_. _Attack_. _The pigmen._ ” McJones jabs a finger roughly up at PBG. “And if you do, _again_ , I swear I’m gonna strangle you in your sleep.”

“Ah, brotherly love,” Barry cuts in, holding out his hand in display. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

And PBG and McJones both explode with laughter. That loud, wild kind of laughter that happens when something really strikes you just right. Long after Dean and the others within earshot have calmed down, they’re still losing their shit. It’s an _it’s-funny-because-it’s-true_ -type situation probably, Dean thinks as he watches them giggle helplessly together. Real life always generates the best material.

Honestly, it’s so easy to forget that they have this whole history that nobody else shares. That they’ve known each other for so much longer than anyone else. That they have decades of memories that no one here will ever truly be privy to and a bond that runs far deeper than it seems from the outside looking in.

And it’s just such a weird thing for Dean to consider, because most everyone—regardless of whether they remain a newbie or go on to become a regular—starts out as a complete stranger. When they show up for the first time, they don’t know anyone, and no one knows them. That’s how it was for Jeff and Luke and Ian and Jesse and Dodger and Chad and even Dean himself, way back in the very first world. Exceptions to that rule are staggeringly rare; the only other people out of all of their journeys thus far to have _any_ kind of preexisting relationship are Lucah and Jon.

But even that’s not quite the same as PBG and McJones. They’re family. More than that, they’re brothers. They’re tied by blood, not by a marriage certificate and a couple of rings. And they’re not all that far apart in age, either—fewer than three years, even. For all intents and purposes, McJones has never known life without PBG. And PBG, of course, has never _had_ life without McJones.

The same holds true here, in this strange cycle of worlds. They’ve been together ever since the very beginning. On the first day of that first world, when everyone else looked around and saw only the unknown, they looked around and saw the one they’d grown up alongside. They were each other’s familiar face in a sea of confusion and upheaval, and they still are even now. No matter how many worlds they’ve passed through, no matter how many times they’ve died, no matter how many times they’ve disagreed and fought and gone to bed furious with the other—no matter what, they’ve always, _always_ been there for each other.

It’s just interesting to reflect on everything they share that no one else does.

At long last, their twin laughter tapers off into these gasping kinds of chuckles. PBG rubs the corners of his eyes with his fingers. “Oh man,” he wheezes. “Jeez. A’right. I really gotta get some sleep.”

Grinning to himself, McJones pivots on his heel and starts for the bedroom. But he pauses in the doorframe, twisting to look back over his shoulder. “I’m serious, though. If you even lay a _finger_ on one of those pigmen, I’ll make myself an only child. And that’s a promise.”

“Wow, Austin,” Jeff says from where he’s standing beside Dean. “Better start sleeping with one eye open.”

“Oh, I already do.” PBG’s voice turns dull, unimpressed. “You think this is the first time he’s threatened me? Nuh-uh. He’s been a fratricidal asshole my whole life. I’m used to it by now.”

McJones just cackles as he slips away into the bedroom.

Following PBG’s earlier advice, the six of them hit the sack much earlier than they normally do. Sometimes—oftentimes—they work long past midnight, only giving in and stumbling off to bed when their eyelids get too heavy to stay open. But tonight, they’re still plenty wide awake as they wriggle beneath their blankets and flop around trying to find that _one_ comfortable position and call out their _g’nights_ to each other. There’s something domestic about it, as if they’re all one, giant family. Thinking about that makes Dean’s chest warm in this soft, gentle way. So he tries to soak it in as much as he can, tries to absorb all the love and safety of this final night together before they face tomorrow.

* * *

They wake.

Beyond the small window in their bedroom, the bluish-grays of night are still blanketing the prairie, and the crescent moon is visible on the horizon. Languidly, stretching and blinking hard and grumbling about it being _too goddamn early_ , the six of them roll out of bed and trudge into the main room of the house. They move sluggishly at first, but then faster, more urgently, as the morning bleariness begins to fade. After splashing their faces with water, they drop down at the table to eat a quick breakfast. Then, having taken that few minutes of leisure, it’s time to hit the ground running.

McJones is jonesing to get going, and he and Jeff immediately take charge of the supply check. While the others start to gather up their bags, the two of them flit around the room, giving everything a final once-over.

“Three days’ worth of food divided evenly between us?”

“Yup,” Jeff says.

“Full gear and diamond swords for everyone?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Bows and arrows?

“All here.”

“The potions?”

“Got ‘em.”

McJones exhales noisily. “Well, I think that’s everything. We just need to put on our armor, and then we’ll—”

“Wait, hang on.” PBG’s head shoots up from where he’s hunched over his bag at the table. “I gotta go pee again.”

Jeff sputters out a laugh. “Oh my god.”

“I gotta _pee_ , Jeff!”

“Hey, y’know, that’s actually not a bad idea. I’ll go too before we put on all that armor,” Dodger says. And then there’s a mumbled chorus of agreement that ends with everyone but Dean and Jeff heading outside to piss in the grass.

Dean wonders why they don’t just wait. Pissing in the Nether is, like, the best thing ever. The ground is so hot in some places that it makes this amazing, nasty-smelling steam cloud. Although, then again, a blaze or a ghast or something could sneak up on you in the meantime, and dying with your dick out would be the absolute worst way to go. But Dean stays on that particular train of thought anyway, eventually reaching the logical conclusion of wondering if the same thing would happen if you jacked off onto the netherrack instead. Maybe he should try that sometime, he thinks absently. Not much to get your rocks off to in hell, but he could hack it.

After a minute, the others come back in from their bathroom break, and they all jump into the arduous process that is putting on armor. There’re just so many different parts to deal with, and plus, this is the first time they’ve had complete sets in this world, so Dodger has trouble figuring out how to get everything on properly. It takes a hot minute, but finally they’re all suited up, standing tall in their chestplates and helmets, their cuisses and greaves, each piece artfully forged with iron and diamond to withstand even the hardest of blows. Dressed like this, they could almost be mistaken for actual gallant knights.

“Alright,” Jeff starts as they swing their baldrics across their chests and pick up their patterned shields, but then he doesn’t keep going. They stand clustered together, silent save for the gentle clinking of their armor. For a moment, Dean looks around the room. This place they’ve come to call their own. It feels like it was so long ago that Jeff was hard at work constructing it. And yet, at the same time, it may as well have been yesterday.

It’s bright. Cozy. Familiar. Messy in that comforting, lived-in way that only _home_ can be. A falling-over stack of wood shoved into the corner. Loose bits of stone and dirt scattered across the table. Clothes thrown over the backs of chairs. McJones’s paperboy hat hanging off the edge of a furnace. A couple of ladders leaning against the far wall. The back bedroom with rumpled blankets and unmade beds and pillows knocked to the floor because McJones was actually right when he said PBG flails in his sleep. They really do love it here, all of them.

 _Goodbye, little house on the prairie_ , Dean thinks, sighing between his teeth. _Hope we meet again, but, well, who fucking knows?_

Barry claps his hands together once, loud. “Right. Let’s do this shit,” he says.

And one by one, the six of them turn and file out of the house, the front door closing behind them with a slam of finality.

Outside, it’s cool, almost chilly. The wind is noticeably absent, the tall grass dead-still beneath their boots. The sunrise is only just getting started by now; a sliver of bright yellow, like an egg yolk, sits perched on the horizon, radiating fire out in all directions. It’s beautiful, but they don’t have time to stop and admire it.

As they approach the hut where the portal sits, their nerves thrum collectively with the knowledge of what they’re about to do. “You know the drill,” Jeff says, glancing at the rest of them. He has to speak up to be heard over the grating portal noises. “After me and Barry go in, wait a minute or so, and then the rest of you can come through.”

“What’s the waiting for?” Dodger asks.

“Just in case there’re a lot of monsters around or the portal puts us on the edge of a cliff or something. If there’s a ton of people trying to come out of the portal all at once, it’ll be too chaotic, and someone could die. A minute is long enough for the two of us to make sure we’re all clear.”

In front of them, the violet smoke of the portal swirls and swirls and swirls. After a second, Jeff and Barry hop up onto the bottom of the frame, balancing on the edge of the obsidian. Dean swallows, reaching up to push his dark hair off his forehead.

“See y’all nerds on the flip side,” he says.

“Yeah, wish us luck,” Barry replies.

Then, together, he and Jeff step into the smoke. It billows up, wrapping around them and drawing them in. And in an instant, in less time than it takes to breathe, the two of them vanish.

“Shit,” Dodger whispers.

A wave of anxiety rolls through Dean. He stares at the now-empty portal, thinking of all of the times he’s walked through and never returned. When a pigman ran him through in one, single slice. When a ghast fired from out of nowhere and knocked him into the lava ocean. And the very first time, when Ray dug into a pool of lava concealed within the rock.

Oh, Ray. His sweet, sweet Ray. He can still remember the horror in Ray’s eyes as the lava came rushing into the passage, cutting him off from the others with no way to escape. And he can still hear, like it was only yesterday, the raw sound of Ray’s voice as he cried out:

_I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry!_

Dean didn’t even notice the press of terror on his skin as he stood there, trapped against the netherrack wall, the bubbling lava closing in on him in an inescapable flood. All he felt was the bitter, rotten ache in his heart as he realized that that really was how it was going to end with them. The last moment they would probably ever share would be his stupid fucking death. He would never see Ray again, would never touch him or hold him or kiss him ever again.

_Oh my god, rip._

“Okay, that’s time,” McJones announces abruptly, pulling Dean out of his memories. He gives a little bit of a startled chuckle.

“What, did you actually fucking _count_ the seconds, McJones?”

McJones’s chin lowers just the slightest bit. “Well, I...yeah. This is important.” Before Dean can reply to that, he twists away, stretching out an arm to beckon the other two. “Anyway, let’s get going.”

Without a beat of hesitation, he jumps up onto the edge of the portal and slips into the mist. And PBG is close behind, faltering for just a second before stumbling in after him.

The world suddenly feels very, very empty.

Shuffling closer to the portal, Dean arches his back to crack out the last bits of tightness that built up during the night. Then, he looks to Dodger, still hanging a few feet behind him.

“You ready?”

He holds out his hand chivalrously, but she doesn’t move.

“I—” She laughs suddenly, but it sounds forced. “I gotta be honest with you, my dude. I’m really fucking scared.”

“It’s okay,” Dean assures her. “Seriously. We do this shit all the time.” This is the safe part. It’s what’s on the other side of the purple haze that she should be worried about.

Dodger studies the dark frame of the portal and the eddying, lapping smoke, worry lines forming in her face. After a moment, she murmurs, “...Will you go through with me?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

Crunching through the grass to stand beside Dean, Dodger reaches down to take his hand, her tiny fingers sliding between his. She sucks in a trembling breath and lets it out long and slow. Finally, she angles her head to look up at Dean.

“For Chad,” she says, her muscles tightening as she steels herself.

Dean squeezes her hand. “For Chad.”

And together, they step into the portal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m really sorry for how short this one is, and I hope nobody’s too disappointed. I agonized a lot over how to best divide up this story into separate parts, and I’m pretty unhappy that I have to have one that’s noticeably shorter than the others, but ultimately, this was the best way to split it up. But don’t worry, we’ll be back to normal with next week’s part, which will be the longest in this story thus far! And then that record will be promptly destroyed by the word count of the final part. (God help me when it comes to editing those, but I’ll do my best.)
> 
> One of the many things this fic accidentally turned into is an exploration of PBG and McJones’s relationship as brothers. I’m absolutely fascinated by the two of them. They’re just so different, and they completely disagree on so many things, and yet, they still seem to be so close with each other. It’s kind of incredible. And wholesome too, because if there’s one person PBG can count on to always laugh at the dumb stuff he says, it’s McJones.
> 
> Also, on that note, I’m so, so weak for the “older sibling instinct” trope. Like it’s such a cliché, but I don’t even care. Give me protective big brother McJones. Give me McJones who disagrees and fights with PBG but would also throw down for him in a heartbeat. That’s all it takes. I am slain.
> 
> See you Friday!


	9. Part Nine

###### Part Nine

The first thing Dean sees when he bursts out the other side of the portal is nothing, because his glasses completely fog over in about zero-point-three seconds. Blinking the lingering spots of purple out of his eyes, he yanks his glasses off, wipes them roughly with the hem of his shirt, and shoves them back onto his nose.

And it’s like he never fucking left.

As he looks around with cleared vision, it all comes rushing back to him. He knows this place like the back of his hand. He knows this wasteland of red, speckled rock and wide puddles of lava. He knows the touch of the sweltering heat—so oppressive that the air actually  _tastes_ like fire, and he can’t quite get a full breath no matter how deeply he inhales. It feels like death in the most horrifically familiar way, and his nerves are instantly thrown on edge.

_Christ_ , he hates the Nether so much.

“Good, everyone made it,” comes Jeff’s voice, and Dean looks over to see the others standing to the side of the portal. He and Dodger hurry to join them, and although they’re not holding hands anymore, she still sticks close to him. Her head is lowered nervously, but she appears to be okay otherwise.

“This actually seems like a pretty bad spot to have ended up in,” McJones is in the middle of saying, his head craned upwards. Dean glances around as well. The six of them are at the far end of a flat swath of rock beneath an almost claustrophobically-low ceiling. The only opening is directly in front of them, maybe about a hundred yards out. And judging by the way the ground there cuts off abruptly, Dean would wager that what they’re standing on is probably no more than a thin overhang. But he’s not about to mine through the floor to see if he’s right.

“Shit,” he mumbles. “Hope we’re not trapped up here.”

“Let’s check it out,” Barry suggests, and they all start off towards the opening.

But after only a few steps, Dodger teeters, stuttering sideways, and blurts, “Ooh, I just got  _super_  nauseous, dude. Yuck.”

“Yeah, that’s normal for your first time through the portal.” Jeff gives a sympathetic half-smile. “Do you wanna sit down for a minute? We can wait.”

She rubs her temples, wincing slightly. “No, I’ll be okay. I think. Thanks, though.” She keeps walking, but her footfalls grow slower, a little more tentative.

Dean’s eyes narrow as he looks up at the ceiling again. In some parts, it’s so low that he could probably touch it if he stood up on his tiptoes. The fucking portal’s never spat them out somewhere quite like this before. Just as no two worlds are alike, no two Nethers are either. Although they’re always virtually the same in terms of composition, the land is laid out differently each time. Which sucks, because if there’s one place it would seriously help to be familiar with going in, it’s the Nether.

“Lava,” Jeff calls out, just in case any of them have missed the pool of it in front of them. As they sidestep it, giving it a wide berth so that any stray embers don’t nail them, Dean swipes a hand across the back of his neck. The air is so dry that he’s not sweating as much as he might be otherwise, but this hefty armor ain’t doing him any favors. God, everywhere they go these days is boiling.

The world before last, they lived on a snow-blanketed tundra where the temperature never got above ten degrees, even at midday, and the nights easily dipped into the negative teens. At the time, Dean complained constantly about how he was probably going to get frostbite and lose all his toes, but now he’d give anything to feel cold again. Also, Lucah was there that time, and she just makes everything better in general.  

“Oh shit, what is  _that?!_ ”

At Dodger’s abrupt shriek, everyone freezes, whirling to look. They find her pointing a trembling finger out to the left. There, a few yards away, stand several creatures that Dean hadn’t noticed. They’re shuffling around aimlessly, half-hidden in shadow. One steps into a puddle of lava, and its flesh immediately begins to smolder, but it doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Oh,” McJones says. “Those are just zombie pigmen. I thought we told you about them.”

Dodger’s gone all stiff like a statue. Her eyes are trained, unblinking, on the pigmen. “Dude, I—I don’t fucking remember. You definitely didn’t tell me they’d look like… _that_.”

“I see. Well, that’s them. This place is crawling with ‘em, so get used to it. Remember, they’re completely harmless unprovoked, but they have a hive mind, so if you attack one, they’ll  _all_  swarm you at once. It doesn’t matter to them if it was an intentional attack or just a misfire of your bow; if they’re hurt, they get  _pissed_. And you don’t want to be the one they’re holding a grudge against, trust me. So be very, very careful whenever they’re nearby.”

“G—gotcha.” Dodger swallows. Then, in that instant, their curiosity piqued by the sound of her and McJones’s voices, the pigmen start to hobble closer. She squeaks in alarm and stumbles backwards, almost slamming into Dean. “Holy— _they’re coming at us!_ ”

Dean can see McJones fighting a smile as he watches her. “Yeah, they do that. They might come up to you and, like, sniff you or whatever, but just stay calm. I promise—” and here, a trace of laughter works its way into his words, “—seriously, I  _promise_  they won’t hurt you if you don’t hurt them.”

And sure enough, the pigmen stop a few feet away, blinking dully and snorting intermittently. Dodger’s horror is actually pretty justified, looking at them. They’re ugly things, with lopsided hog-faces and thick, lumpy bodies. Their eyes are crusty and clouded over, not even a hint of higher intelligence lurking within their pupils. Some of them have patches of gangrene skin that’s rotted away to reveal the bare bone underneath. In their fat fists, they clutch rusted, bent golden swords—blatant warnings that, no matter how docile they seem right now, they should never,  _ever_ be messed with.

After a moment longer, Jeff starts off again, and the others amble along after him. Dodger’s the last to break away from the pigmen, and she scurries to catch up with the rest of them. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees her shaking her head almost in disbelief, her hands curled defensively by her sides.

Another minute or so of walking, and they reach the edge of the overhang and can finally look out onto the whole of the Nether. Dean takes a minute to scan his surrounding, trying to orient himself. Just as he suspected, the single layer of rock beneath them is the only thing holding them up. This overhang of theirs is stuck in the side of a sheer cliff wall, suspended dizzyingly high over the vast sea of lava. A little ways away, he can just barely spy the much flatter, much safer mainland below. Far above their heads, lavafalls leak from the ceiling in slow trickles, and stalactites of glowstone twinkle tantalizingly. There don’t appear to be any ghasts around, Dean notes, which is a small comfort.

Jeff carefully inches forward and peers out, leaning as far forward as he can without falling. “...Alright. There’s kind of a ledge up here, it looks like,” he says slowly, squinting upwards. “We might be able to climb on top of this thing and then get down onto the mainland by going that way. The cliffs are pretty steep, though, and the ledge isn’t that big. I dunno.”

“A ledge? Sounds risky.” McJones comes up beside him to take a look as well. “Yeah, that’s... _eesh_. I don’t know if that’s the best idea.”

Dean’s cringing just watching them. If either of them trips, he’s going to fucking lose it. “Yeah, god, can we, like,  _not_ do this? I’m not into taking a swan dive into lava two seconds after we get here.”

“It’s the only way out, though. I mean, we could always just go back home and move the portal to see if we can get a better location, but...”

“But that could just put us in an even worse place instead, and we’d lose time and energy rebuilding the portal,” McJones finishes. “You make a good point. Hm.”

McJones and Jeff fall silent, both of them frowning off into space. McJones licks absently at his lower lip as he thinks, and it’s honestly the worst fucking thing ever, because then Dean can’t stop staring at him and noticing how pink and soft and pretty his mouth is and how good it might feel all smushed up against—

Shit. This is not the fucking time.

“Well, no matter what, we at least have to  _try_  going this way,” Barry points out. He’s tentatively begun to chip away at the rock above their heads to give them more space to work with. “It’d be a—”

“Wait, what’s that over there?!” PBG interrupts, his eyes widening.

“What? Where?”

PBG points out into the air with two fingers. “There!”

Dean squints, following PBG’s fingers as he peers into the haze. At first, he can’t pick out anything besides lava, more lava, and netherrack. But then, through the ruddy smog, something starts to take shape. And once he sees it, he  _really_ fucking sees it:

Far, far off in the distance looms the murky shape of a sprawling castle.

Glory fucking hallelujah.               

Jeff’s the first to speak. “Oh my god,” he says, and he dissolves into incredulous laughter. “Oh my  _god_.”

“No way, dude.  _No. Way._  Did we just  _find_ a fucking fortress right here?!” Dean throws his arms out wide. “ _How_ does this keep happening to us?!”

PBG’s lips curl into a smirk. “Alright, I’m calling it. I’m calling it: Nobody’s even gonna die here. We’re gonna get all the nether wart and everything we need, and it’s gonna be a  _breeze_. A  _cinch_.” He snaps his fingers. _“_ And you can quote me on that! That’s the official Peebs Prediction!”

“Don’t you jinx us, PBG!” Dean yells.

“Jinxing isn’t a real thing!” PBG yells back.

“Oh, yeah, well, we’ll see what you say when we all die in, like, five minutes now!  _Jesus_.”

At any rate, that revelation immediately decides their next course of action for them. They’ve spent literal  _days_ looking for fortresses in other worlds; there’s no fucking way they’re leaving to move the portal when there’s one practically right at their fingertips. So, one by one, they tentatively build their way up and haul themselves onto the top of the overhang. There, McJones constructs a cobblestone beacon lined with torches so they’ll be able to find their way back easier. Then, they ever-so-carefully begin to cross the cliffs towards the mainland.

They clamber along in a single-file line, their sides pressed against the cliff face and their fingers scrabbling for any notches or chinks in the rock to use as handholds. As they go, they try to build up and flatten down the land where they can, constructing a sort-of walkway along the cliff just in case they need to get back to the portal in a hurry. Below them, large bubbles burst on the surface of the lava, turning the air above shimmery with heat. The fiery sea seems to taunt them, to dare them to lose their balance and plummet to their demise. But they swallow their fear and keep going, step by cautious step, until they finally reach the mainland. With a heavy touch of relief, they climb safely down from the cliffs and set off on the next leg of their journey towards the fortress.

Which actually takes a lot longer than Dean expects. It’s not that he thought it’d be a quick jaunt right over, considering how much of a pain it was just to get to the mainland in the first place. But he  _completely_  misjudged how far away the fortress was from them. From their position up in the overhang, it looked to be maybe a thirty-minute walk, tops, but thirty minutes comes and goes, and they’re not even close. Every time Dean thinks they’re nearly there, the fortress seems to jump back out of reach, almost like a mirage.

The six of them press on for god knows how long, leaving an endless trail of torches behind them like breadcrumbs. They keep their eyes and ears alert, but there’s really not much around other than some lumbering pigmen, the occasional deposit of quartz they pause to mine, and a few lavafalls spilling onto the ground, setting fires wherever they flow. They climb over hills and wander beneath rocky arches connecting great columns of netherrack, like striated pillars growing from within the earth. PBG bursts into song a few times—improvised ballads about how he hopes he doesn’t die horribly—which earns him a bit of laughter. Dean mostly stares dead ahead as he walks, his forehead crinkled in tight concentration. Maybe he should’ve picked that fire resistance potion when he had the chance. Oh well. Too late now.

Soon enough, the edge of the land they’ve been following is interrupted by an impassable wall of rock. They spend a while searching for a detour—some kind of cavern or something that’ll take them around—but that only results in a ton of wasted time and fast-growing frustrations. So they give up and elect to just dig their own tunnel instead, even though that’s the exact kind of thinking that’s gotten  _how many people?_  killed in the past. But despite their historically miserable luck when it comes to mining in the Nether, they make it through unharmed. And the instant they emerge out the other side, there it is.

The fortress.

It’s standing right there in front of them, as if it was just waiting for them to make it past that literal final roadblock. Up close, without the layers of red smog obscuring their vision, they can finally see it in its full glory. And for a moment, they’re still, reverent, just taking it in.

It’s an intimidating structure. A single entrance ruts up against the edge of the land, and an interconnected mess of bridges wraps all the way around to the opposite side and burrows straight into the cliffs, but the majority of it stands entirely over the lava sea. The main section consists of dozens and dozens of enclosed hallways stretching off in every direction, propped up by massive supports rising from the lava. The dark brick, cracked and crumbling in places, almost seems to draw in and absorb the light, leaving the fortress a jarring, black smear against the rusty fog of the Nether. The whole thing stands at least five stories high, towering so far above them that just looking up at it is vertiginous.

It’s as terrifying as it is breathtaking. In the menacing shadow of the fortress, Dean feels no bigger than an ant. He doesn’t belong here. None of them do. This isn’t their domain, and they’d better not forget it.

As is to be expected at this point, Dodger’s mouth is agape. Beside her, Barry adjusts his sunglasses as he gazes at the fortress. “Well, here we go. We made it,” he says after a long silence.

“Fortress hype!” Dean whoops to no one in particular, throwing his fist into the air.

“Aw, jeez, I’m  _scaaared_ ,” PBG pipes up in a warbling voice. “Hold me, Jeff!” He widens his eyes goofily, and Jeff chuckles into the back of his hand.

They pick their way down a short, rocky slope and patter over to the long bridge linking the entrance of the fortress with the mainland. Dean’s fingertips tingle as he steps onto the walkway, as if he’s crossed some invisible point of no return. He turns again to look at Dodger, and she meets his gaze with a thin half-smile.

About halfway across, the bridge splits into two. One of the paths continues forward, leading to the interior section of the fortress, while the other connects perpendicularly with a vast spiderweb of open-air walkways shooting off into the distance. They choose to keep heading straight, which takes them into a wide room with a small basin of lava at the center. As the six of them pass through the doorway, Jeff starts to say something, but he’s cut short when two skeletons spring from out of nowhere.

“Oh,  _ow!_ ” he cries as an arrow flies past his bicep. He draws his sword and strikes back against the first skeleton, knocking it away. PBG and Dean immediately rush to his aid, pulling out their own swords and slaying the second. When they turn back to Jeff, he’s wiping blood from a cut across the side of his arm.

Dean leans towards him. “Jeff! You good, dude?”

“Yeah. I should eat something, though.” Jeff rummages around in his bag and pulls out a small slice of bread. He sighs wryly as he takes a bite of it. “God, I’m already hurt, and we just got here. Not a great start. Watch us all die before we even make it to the spawner.”

McJones holds up a hand. “No, that’s a good reminder, though,” he says. “If any of you have to eat, do it now before we go any further.”

So they wait for Jeff to regain his strength. In the meantime, PBG and Barry loot a few of the skeletons’ bones and whatever arrows are left in their quivers. Dodger spins in a slow circle, sizing up the room with a frown and furrowed eyebrows. As Dean watches her, she reaches out to curiously trail her knuckles along the grooves between the nether bricks. And abruptly, her eyes light up.

“...Hey, the wall’s warm.”

McJones glances over at her. “Well, yeah, it’s—” he starts, but when Dodger bends down and hooks a finger under the edge of her boots, he makes this choked noise of alarm. “Wait,  _no, stop_ —”

But her shoes are already off, and she’s padding around the passageway in bare feet, wiggling her toes happily. “Dude, this place has heated floors too!” she says. She’s burst into a wide grin, her apprehension completely forgotten for the time being. “This is great! Y’think we can get one of these in our house back home, Jeff?”

Jeff laughs and almost chokes on his bread. McJones stands there, stricken. “Dodger,” he croaks after a long moment. “I know you have, like, a  _thing_ with shoes, but you—you can’t do this.”

“Why not?” Dodger does a little hopping kind of jig.

“Because there’s lava everywhere here! You might  _think_ it’s safe, sure, but—but you have  _no_ idea how hot the ground actually is! All it takes is a tiny pool of lava beneath the surface to heat the ground so much it’ll give you third-degree burns!” McJones looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm. “Please,  _please_ , just keep all of your clothes on while we’re in the Nether. I’m begging you. It’s so dangerous.”

“Man, can you believe this guy? He’s telling the ladies  _not_ to take their clothes off,” Barry mutters. Everyone snickers, including Dodger but excluding McJones, who’s buried his face in his hands. Dodger reaches up to pat him affectionately on the shoulder.

“Okay, fine, I’ll wear my shoes if it’ll make you feel better.”

“It’s for  _your_ sake, Dodger, not mine,” McJones mumbles into his fingers. But all the same, he looks relieved.

Dodger re-shoes herself, and Jeff swallows the last bits of his bread crust, and then they’re off again. Dean had forgotten just how confusingly laid out these fortresses are. It’s an endless loop of identical-looking hallways and four-way crossings that give them no choice but to pick a direction at random. Most of the hallways turn left and right so many times that they can’t even tell which way they’re walking anymore. Others end in dead ends, broken bridges to nowhere, or even wrap back around to places they’ve already been. The only thing that keeps them from getting hopelessly lost is their  _torches on the left_  system—which is something Dean has to remind them to follow at least five times over.

As they wander the halls, they run into the occasional chest tucked in the corner. There’s nothing too great inside any of them, though: some gold gear, a couple of iron ingots, a few loose pieces of obsidian, meh. The closest thing to  _cool_  they find is a set of diamond horse armor that PBG insists on taking, dropping some pointed remarks about how he totally called it that they should’ve brought horses.

Aside from the chests, they also come across a few more skeletons, one of which is that nasty, sword-wielding, wither kind that rots your skin to ash if it touches you. Barry gets shot in the shoulder by one of the normal skeletons, but his chestplate luckily takes the brunt of the damage. Other than that, they’re able to slay everything that attacks them without too much trouble.

And really, what they find most of is zombie pigmen. This fortress is crawling with them; there’s barely single corridor in the whole structure that doesn’t have at least a few shambling around within. Dean doesn’t like it at all. The pigmen’s beady little eyes seem to follow them as they slip past, giving him a sense of unease and mistrust deep inside.

After a while, they reach a narrow staircase set against the wall at what’s otherwise a dead end. As they ascend, Dodger finally breaks the silence, asking, “So, what are we actually looking for here, Professor McJones?”

“Oh boy, you’re on the  _professor_ train too now, huh?” McJones twists back to give her a flicker of a smile. “To answer your question, we’re here for lot of things, honestly. A spawner to farm blaze rods, glowstone dust, some mushrooms wouldn’t hurt either. And, as always, a crapton of nether wart.”

“Nether wart? What’s that? Sounds like some kind of nasty STD or something.” She makes a face.

Dean snorts, loud, and McJones too lets out an amused huff. “It’s a super important material for potion-brewing,” he explains. “Like, so important that you can’t make anything without it. Almost every single potion uses it as a base.”

They exit the stairs and start down another long corridor. Dodger trots up to walk beside McJones. “So the potions we got from the wizard guy’s quest aren’t enough on their own?”

“No, not even close, unfortunately. For what we’re doing, we need a  _lot_ of help.”

“—Hey, hey, hey, guys, wait a sec!" PBG cries. "I just realized something!” 

“What?”

McJones looks up at him, eyebrows knitting slightly. A huge grin stretches across PBG’s face, and he slowly lifts a finger to point back at McJones.

“Stew- _wart_.”    

Dean has never seen someone look quite as dead inside as McJones does in that instant. After a moment, he gives a long, slow sigh, his eyes rolling all the way up to the ceiling.

“Oh, I  _get_  it! It’s a hilarious pun!” he intones, and PBG giggles. “Anyway, moving on.” He glowers a little bit, shaking his head. “We can’t keep stopping like this. We’ll never get out of here otherwise.”

It feels like they’ll never get out of here,  _period_. They had good luck finding the fortress itself, but they’re having abysmal luck locating what they need  _within_  the fortress. It’s been at least another hour already, and all they’ve seen is pigmen and a whole lotta nether brick. Oh, and even more chests with diamond horse armor, because of fucking course. Of all the things to be fortunate enough to keep finding, it’s gotta be god-tier armor for their nonexistent horses _._ Absolutely fantastic.

Over the next who-knows-how-long, their strategy of picking random directions to go leads them in and out of more hallways and up and down more flights of stairs. At one point, they run into a lava flow blocking their way, so they quickly set up a crafting table and make a bucket to scoop it up and dump it out elsewhere. While Jeff and Barry are busy relocating the lava to a more convenient location, the rest of them wall off the entrance to that particular passage with cobblestone, cover said wall with torches, and stick a door in it for good measure. They like to do this sometimes; it’s a little extra indication how to get back, and also it gives them somewhere to retreat to if the need arises. Which, hopefully, it doesn’t.

They climb another set of stairs, this one bringing them up into a tiny yet high-ceilinged room that resembles some kind of guard tower. On one side of the space is a thin balcony, not unlike the one they have at home. On the other side, adjacent to the stairs, the room leads into a long, straight bridge. With nowhere else to go except back the way they came, they head for the bridge. But as soon as they start to duck out from beneath the nether brick roof, there comes a helium-like mewl, as if someone’s letting air out of a pinched balloon.

All at once, Jeff gasps and jumps back, holding out his arm to stop the others. “Oh crap, there’s ghasts,” he hisses, tensing. “Don’t go out there.”

“Ghasts,  _plural?_  Like,  _more than one?"_ Dean demands.

“I can see at least four right now.”

“ _Shit_.”

Slowly, Dean creeps up to peer around Jeff’s shoulder, and his gut drops as soon as he lays eye on them. One of the ghasts is floating lazily through the air above them, a second is down near the mainland, and two others are farther off in the distance, circling around a lavafall. The nearest of the four is only a couple hundred feet from the bridge, which is  _way_ too close for comfort considering how enormous it is; even the smallest of ghasts are twice the size of a human, while the bigger ones can be four or even five times larger. They’re lumpy and amorphous, with long tentacles hanging limply from pockmarked, milky-white bodies, and their eyes and mouths are nothing but dark slits. The nearest one trills again, almost like a cat, and the sound sends goosebumps prickling all down Dean’s spine.

He grits his teeth. “So what the hell do we do now?”

“Well, we gotta take these guys out.” Slowly, Jeff reaches back to grab his bow, and Dean makes a strangled noise.

“You—Jeff,  _no!_ ” he cries. “A fuckton of ghasts shooting at us on a teeny-tiny bridge over lava sounds like the worst situation possible!”

“If you pay attention and don’t stay in one place for too long, they won’t be able to hit you,” McJones says from behind them. When Dean turns to look at him, he’s pulling out an arrow from his bag. “Their projectiles aren’t super fast-moving, remember.”

Guess they’re actually fucking doing this, then. With a dry swallow, Dean reluctantly fumbles for his own bow. As he does, the others come closer to peek out at the ghasts as well. Barry curses hotly under his breath when he sees them, while Dodger just blanches.

“Y…you guys deal with this shit  _every time_?” she asks weakly.

“Yup, every time we’re in this kind of world,” McJones replies, and he waves her away. “Stay clear.”

“I—I will.”

She slinks back into the tower room and hovers beside PBG near the stairs, although she still draws her sword and holds it with both hands, poised to slice. Dean’s not sure how she plans to melee a bunch of flying jellyfish that only do ranged attacks, but it’s nice that she has their backs anyway.

“I’m going out,” Jeff says, and Dean glances back over to him. His bow is nocked and ready to fire. Ever so carefully, he inches out onto the bridge.

“Be careful,” McJones tells him. He nods slightly, keeping his eyes trained on the ghast. It hasn’t noticed him yet, but it will soon enough. As Dean watches, his heart in his throat, Jeff raises his bow and draws back the string. His jaw tightens. His chest rises as he takes in a breath. And, with a sharp twang, he fires. The arrow streaks through the air, no more than a pale blur. Gracefully, it arcs up, up, over, and down, sinking right into the ghast’s pillowy flesh.

The ghast screams.

The sound is deafening. Shrill. Blood-chilling. Born of pure agony and rage, cutting right through Dean’s eardrums and stunning him stiff for a moment. The ghast swivels in the air, searching for the source of the arrow. When it locks on Jeff, already drawing his bow again, its slit-eyes snap wide to reveal burning pits of crimson. Its maw gapes open, and with a shriek, it hocks a ball of pure fire at him.

Jeff has a good couple of seconds to dodge, and the fireball zooms harmlessly over the bridge and off into the distance. Before the ghast can zero in once more, he shoots, landing another arrow directly between its flaming eyes. It roars again in fury, and this time, its cry alerts its friend down below. Moving fast, the second ghast begins to drift up towards the bridge as well, its mouth splitting to attack.

“Jeff, look out! Your five o’clock!” Dean yells. Jeff whirls around just in time to jump out of the way of another fireball, the flames just barely catching him on the side of his armor. In his panic, his bow slips from his hand, and he goes scrambling for it.

“Somebody cover me!” he shouts. Before the words even leave his mouth, Dean’s already sprinting out onto the bridge, and McJones is right on his heels. He yanks an arrow from his bag and nocks it, but there’s no time to aim properly.

“I  _believe!_ ” he screeches and just goes for it, letting the arrow fly off into the hazy, red beyond. It misses the ghast by a mile. “ _Fuck!_ ”

A fireball whizzes past, and he dives away with a yelp. He grabs for another arrow, but McJones is already there, landing a direct shot on the first ghast. As soon as the arrowhead makes contact, the ghast’s eyes go dull. It gives a weak, gurgly hiss, and it begins to swell. It puffs out wider and wider until, in the blink of an eye, it pops like a bubble, leaving behind only a wispy cloud of dust and smoke that dissipates into the blistering air.

The moment it dies, they turn on the other one. Planting his feet firmly on the ground, Dean reloads his bow, takes a second to line up, and fires. This arrow hits its mark, eliciting another terrifying scream from the ghast, but Jeff and McJones quickly finish it off with shots of their own before it can retaliate.

Then, Jeff leans over the side of the bridge, squinting at one of the further-away ghasts, but McJones grabs his shoulder to stop him. “No, don’t waste your arrows killing them all. Those ones over there don’t even see us. Let’s just go.”

“...Yeah, you’re probably right.” Jeff looks a little unsure, but he straightens up and un-nocks his arrow all the same.

“All clear!” McJones calls to the others, beckoning them out from the small room. They step out onto the bridge cautiously at first, but they pick up the pace when they see that it really is all clear. As he breaks into a jog, Dean slides the back of his knuckles across his forehead, letting out a whistled breath. Crisis averted.

Crossing the bridge takes the six of them to a similar covered area, except this particular one doesn’t have any stairs or balconies attached. Rather, it’s just a simple intersection marker, decorated with nether brick arches. They’ve made their way around to the backside of the fortress by now, and banging a left would take them onto that same maze of open-air walkways that Dean spotted earlier. The rightmost path, on the other hand, is an enclosed corridor leading back into the main part of the fortress. And continuing on straight, there’s another section of bridges, but instead of being open-air like the ones to the left, these cut directly into the netherrack cliffs, making them appear like more interior halls instead.

After some deliberation, the six of them elect to go forward into the netherrack rather than stay on the bridges. Even if they  _are_  out of danger of being shot by ghasts for the time being, bridges are just bad places to be strategically: You’re exposed on all sides, there’s not a lot of space to maneuver, and you have to rely solely on your bows to protect you. So it’s not smart to be hanging around on them unless you absolutely have to.

Of course, the netherrack halls create the exact opposite issue; as soon as they venture in, Dean realizes that the space is a lot narrower than that of the fortress. That, coupled with the lack of windows, makes him immediately feel claustrophobic. And even more unfortunately, they don’t get very far before the path splits again, and they’re faced with another random choice. They’re right back in the land of four-way junctions and identical hallways, except this time, there’s literally fucking nothing to orient them. No stairs, no chests, absolutely nothing.

…Nothing except for pigmen, of course. There’re even more here within the rock than there were inside the fortress or out on the walkways. Their grunts and snorts are loud in the cramped space, and their golden swords seem to stand out even more against the netherrack walls. It’s so unnerving.

Eventually, Dodger clears her throat. “Is this, like, bad? That we haven’t found anything yet?”

“Nah. I mean, it sucks, but this is just how it goes sometimes,” Barry says, rubbing his eyes beneath his sunglasses. Dodger’s mouth twists, but she doesn’t say anything else, and silence falls once more.

Right. Straight. Left. Another left. No, turn back, that’s a dead end. On and on and on they go, armor clanking and swords swaying by their hips. Dean runs his hand through his hair, puffing out his cheeks. He’s trying to be calm, but he’s just been so tensed up ever since he passed through the portal, his pulse a little too fast and breathing a little too shallow. He always feels so out of control here, in the land of fire and demons and endless labyrinths, and he can’t steady himself no matter how much he tries.

Then, in that instant, he hears something. The unmistakable sound of crackling fire mixed with raspy, mechanical breaths. And no sooner does the thought cross his mind than they turn the corner to find their path blocked by not one, not two, but  _three_ blazes.

“Woah, woah,  _woah!_ ” PBG cries, and they all spring back to avoid being nailed by the volley of fireballs that immediately comes flying at them. Startled, it takes them a second to catch their breath, and Dean quickly draws his sword on the off chance that any of the blazes come chasing after.

“Should we go a different way?” Dodger asks, her voice just the slightest tinge higher than usual. Casting a sideways glance at Dean, she pulls out her own sword as well. “We can just close this hallway off and avoid all that shit, r—right?”

But McJones shakes his head. “No, actually, this is exactly what we want. Remember when I said we need blaze rods?” Dodger nods slowly. “Well, those there are the blazes.”

“So we’re killing them?”

“We’re killing them. C’mere, take a look.”

McJones beckons Dodger over with a hook of his finger. Pressing his back against the wall, he ever so slightly peers back around the corner, and she timidly does the same. The two of them are mostly hidden from the blazes’ views, but Dean takes a shuffling step closer anyway, his sword still at the ready in case shit goes down.

“Those things floating around their heads are what we want?” Dean hears Dodger whisper.

“No, those are just metal bars. I mean, you can take ‘em if you’d like, but they’re heavy and not very useful. What we’re looking for is the thing in the very middle of its body. If the smoke clears a little—there, the glowing thing. See that?”

“…Oh yeah.”

“ _That’s_  the blaze rod. You can crush ‘em up into powder, which is a super vital resource, so we need a bunch of them,” McJones murmurs. After a moment more, the two of them step back from the wall. “Not every blaze has one, so look closely. When you kill one that does, make sure you wait a little bit to let its remains cool off, and then you can just go grab its rod.”

A pause.

“Oh,” Jeff says.

“That sounds kinda weird,” PBG mumbles, and Dean and Barry both snicker.

McJones bristles, his shoulders rising. “Oh, for—don’t turn that into something dirty. I wasn’t—”

“Hell yeah, dude, grabbing  _all_ the rods.  _Bow-chicka-wow-wow_ ,” Dodger adds, and for once, her stony-serious face cracks up into that teasing smile Dean knows so well from her. The tension slips, just for a second. The stress eases off their shoulders. But then, they see another flood of fireballs go rocketing down the adjacent corridor, and a chill settles over them again.

“Should we melee or try to snipe ‘em?” Jeff asks finally.

Barry’s brow furrows. “I’d say snipe. That seems safer, because otherwise we’d have to rush them, and they’d have the advantage on us.”

“Yeah, we should definitely be using our bows as much as we can here,” McJones agrees. “But watch out for the pigmen. I saw a couple back there not far behind the blazes, and if any of us shoots one on accident...” He trails off, wincing.

With a nod, Barry pulls out his bow and approaches the intersection. Jeff and PBG do the same, but Dean hangs back this time. He’s much better with a sword than a bow, especially in close quarters like this when a stray arrow could hit your friend or, as McJones said, a pigman.

Jeff gives a hushed count off, and then the three of them charge around the corner. The instant they enter the blazes’ line of sight, they’re bombarded. Dean sees PBG takes a direct hit, and he squeals a little bit, skidding backwards from the force of the impact against his shield. But then he grunts, “I’m okay!” and as soon as the blazes let up, he draws his bow and fires.

The air fills with the whistle of arrows, the sizzle of fireballs, the clunk of shields tanking hits. And, a moment later, Barry hissing, “Ow _, damn it!_ ”

“Barry!” Jeff’s voice. “You good, dude?”

“Oh shit, I—I have to eat.”

“Yeah, quick, eat. Austin and I can take ‘em.”

Dean’s stomach drops. “Hey! Do y’all need backup out there?”

“—No,” comes Barry’s reply, muffled around a mouthful of food. “We’ve got it under control. I’m alright. Just—stay there.”

Then, another snap of a bow followed by a low, rumbling whir like a dying engine.

“Take that, you  _douche!_ ” PBG hollers.

“Dude, nice on,” says Jeff.

“Thanks, Jeff!”

PBG’s voice turns so sweet and cheerful and happy-go-lucky that it’s almost like they’re not fighting for their lives against literal fucking hellspawn. The resilience of the human spirit indeed.

A minute more is all it takes for them to slay the remaining two blazes, and then Jeff calls out that it’s safe for the others to come around the corner too. PBG and Jeff are standing there together, PBG gnawing on a piece of chicken and Jeff wiping sweat from his brow. Their shields and armor are a little bit blackened with soot, but they look mostly unharmed. Barry’s a few feet away, picking through the blazes’ dead bodies—if they can even be called  _bodies_ in the first place. It’s really just a few piles of rusted scrap metal lying around.

“One of ‘em didn’t have a rod, but that’s two down already. A solid start,” Barry says as he pulls the blaze rods free and tucks them into his bag. Even through the leather, Dean can still see them glowing faintly. With that, victorious, they resume their trek through the passageways. But they don’t get more than halfway down the corridor before Dodger’s voice bursts out:

“Wait, you guys!”

Turning, the others find her hovering a few steps behind. Her shoulders are squared, and she’s clutching her bow in one hand by the grip. “Do you hear that?” she hisses, her eyes narrowed in alarm.

“Hear what?” Jeff asks.

“Those blaze dudes. I—I think there might be more nearby.”

She spins slowly, glancing warily all around her. For a few seconds, they all fall as quiet as the dead, just listening, listening, listening. Suddenly, PBG’s jaw pops open.

“Ooh, yeah, I hear ‘em too!  _Dang_ ,” he breathes.

And right on cue, so does Dean. That same metallic breathing—distant and muffled but undeniable. His mouth flattens. Blazes do tend to just kind of show up randomly in fortresses, but three right off the bat and even more not far off?

“Maybe there’s a spawner,” he says slowly.

McJones gives a faint nod. “Yeah, could be, from the sound of it.”

“Oh god, I hope so. That’d be amazing.” Jeff breaks into a small, hopeful smile. “Let’s try to find it. But keep your bows ready in case we get surprised like we just did.”

They start off again, but they’re moving slowly this time, weapons brandished and ears peeled. When they reach another intersection, they stop to carefully listen for the telltale sounds of blazes. A moment later, Barry jerks his chin towards the hallway going right.

“This way.”

As they venture forth, the noises grow louder and louder. With every step, Dean’s palms get slicker and slicker. He’s forgotten how long they’ve been here. It’s got to have only been a couple of hours at the most, but it feels like it’s been  _eons_  since they left home. This place really does mess with your internal clock. Maybe it’s for the best that they can’t sleep here; Dean can only imagine what it would be like to wake up with absolutely no indication as to how long you were asleep or even what day it is in the first place. You could seriously lose your mind like that.

The others are equally frazzled, from what Dean can tell. PBG’s been getting increasingly jumpier since that run-in with the ghasts, Dodger seems like she’s about two seconds from having her fight-or-flight instinct kick in, and McJones just looks plumb fucking exhausted. Dean feels McJones’s haggard expression— _all_ of their haggard expressions, really—deep in his bones. The Nether is draining. Soul-sucking.

Soon, the hallway splits into four again, but by now, the sounds are so loud in their eardrums that they don’t even have to pause to know exactly which way to go. And the very instant they turn that next corner, they’re there. At the far end of the hall is a short flight of stairs set into the wall, leading up to a small landing enclosed in netherrack. From his vantage point, Dean can just barely make out the tantalizing flicker of a spawner within. On either side of the stairs, a few more pigmen are shuffling around. And, of course, there’s blazes too.

Oh god, are there blazes.

PBG’s the one to voice their singular, collective thought as they stand stock-still at the entrance of the corridor: “Holy  _crap_ , that’s a lot of guys.”

No fucking wonder they heard the blazes from so far away. The passageway is absolutely  _filled_ with them. They’re on the stairs and in the spawner room and filling in the spaces between the pigmen, all of them heaving and wheezing and billowing smoke and ash everywhere. Dean tries to count them, but his eyes are already starting to sting from the soot even as far away as he is. Fuck, this is dangerous.

“No, but this is really good, though,” Jeff hisses as if he read Dean’s mind. Dean can barely hear him over the din. “Now that we found a spawner, all we have to do is kill these guys, and then we’ll just be able to camp until we get all the blaze rods we need.”

Dean rubs his watery eyes with the back of his fist. “ _Ugh_ —so what’s the plan, then? Do you think we should—”

But he doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because that’s when the blazes open fire.

“Shield up!” Barry shouts, and they have mere seconds to throw up their shields before a torrent of fireballs crashes into them. Even behind that buffer, the impact knocks the air out of Dean’s lungs, and he chokes out a string of curses.

His eyes are really burning now, but he can’t let that stop him. He blinks hard once, twice, and then charges. Howling out a war cry, he pounces on the first blaze he reaches, connecting hard with its head. The blaze swoops at him, but he jumps out of the way and comes at it again from the side. Metal meets metal with a clang that judders all the way up his arm. Enraged, the blaze gives a rattling heave, and flames swell around its core. But before it can shoot, Dean lunges forward and strikes it again with all of his might. As soon his sword makes contact, he feels something give, and the blaze instantly falls to pieces with a final whine.

Dean stops just long enough to yank the blaze rod out from the pile of rubble before he’s up and moving again. He’s in full combat mode now, his muscles tight and his senses hyperalert. There’s so much going on that he can barely process it all. The yells of his friends around him, the unabating fires everywhere he looks, the layer of smoke in the air, the  _whoosh_ of projectiles being fired—

“ _Shit!_ ”

He ducks behind his shield to avoid an onslaught of fireballs, but they’re coming from too many directions all at once. One hits him right in the torso, slamming him sideways against the wall. Fragments of coal and gunpowder explode in every direction, blinding him for a moment. And for a split-second, the roaring flames catch on his chestplate, and he too is alight.

“ _Fuck_ , I’m on fire!” he bellows, but there’s no time to react. Almost immediately, there’s another blaze in his face. He nails it with a panicked, backhand swipe. Then, he jumps away and thrusts out his shield as it winds up to attack. He digs his heels into the brick to brace himself as best he can, and he takes one, two, three hits before the blaze runs out of steam and starts flying towards him again. But he dances back, keeping distance between them so he can snag a quick glance around. 

Jeff and Barry are further down the corridor, pushing their way forward blaze by blaze. Behind him, back at the entrance, he sees that some of the others have built another wall with a door so they can easily slip away if they’re in danger. PBG and McJones are pressed up against it, rapid-firing their bows at any blaze they can aim for. PBG sends an arrow streaking right into one Dean’s fighting, and with its attention snagged away, Dean’s able to land a direct hit on it.

But it’s not distracted for long. Before he can retreat again, it pivots and dives into him, dozens of pounds of metal all directed right into his torso. He’s thrown to the ground as if he weighs nothing, and the pain that reverberates through his ribcage is so overwhelming that it feels like his chest is dented in. As he achingly rolls himself over, coughing, he sees PBG snipe down the blaze with another arrow. He calls out a hoarse thank you and slowly pushes himself back to a stand. Then, feeling a hot sting, he notices that there’s still a tiny flame dancing at the bottom of his chestplate. He smashes his armored forearm over it, snuffing it, before adjusting his grip on his sword and bolting back into the chaos.

They’ve fought their way through a good number of the blazes by now, and they’ve almost cleared a path to the spawner room. Jeff’s right by the bottom of the stairs, under attack in a one-against-three battle. Dean jumps right in beside him, driving his sword into the first of the three blazes.

“ _Yo_ , you okay, dude?” he huffs, wide-eyed.

Jeff’s panting as well, and he’s got a nasty-looking burn on his hand, but he nods all the same. “Yeah, I’m—oh god—” one of the blazes takes aim, and they both raise their shields in unison, “—I’m good. But thanks.”

The instant the blaze stops shooting to recharge, Jeff’s right up in its grill, hitting it so fast and hard it doesn’t have time to even move before it’s slain. Jeff’s the best fighter among them by far. He’s strong but nimble, and he tanks hits almost as well as he gives them out. Even now, he’s easily taking on two blazes at once with wide, artful swings of his sword. He’s such a badass. Dean’s kinda in awe of him.

Then, another blaze flies in close, heaving a fireball that Dean doesn’t notice until too late. It explodes at his feet with an ear-piercing bang. The ground beneath him goes up in flames, and he trips away just in time to avoid being torched. Sword poised to strike, he spins towards the offending blaze, only to find that it’s pulled back, putting itself directly behind a pigman. Fuck.

“Jeff, help me kite this bitch,” he says through gritted teeth. Jeff glances over right as he fells the blaze in front of him.

“What?”

“This guy here. We gotta get him away from the pigman.”

Right as the words leave Dean’s mouth, the blaze launches another handful of fireballs at them. They try to deflect the hits, but with a sudden, brittle  _snap_ , the corner of Jeff’s shield gives way. The last embers of a fireball ricochet off the broken edge, and Jeff jerks back as they scorch across his shoulder.

“ _Shit_ ,” he gasps, doubling over.

A shot of fear spikes in Dean’s gut. “Dude,  _eat_ ,” he urges.

Jeff’s face is taut with pain as he clutches his shoulder, but he shakes his head. “No,” he mutters. “No, I’m still okay.” He lets his arm drop, fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. “Quick, get ‘im before he comes after us again.”

Darting closer, they lure the blaze into swooping safely out of range of the pigman. Then, swords glinting in the firelight, they go ham on it. With both of them together, it doesn’t stand a chance, and that’s another blaze rod in the bag.

Every time a blaze goes down, there’s a little more air to breathe, a little more room to move around. But the staircase up is still obstructed by an ever-growing wall of them, churned out by the spawner within. Dean and Jeff are able to storm them and take them by surprise, getting a few hits on them before they can wind up to retaliate. Barry joins in the fight too, jumping one from behind and gashing its head almost in half. Dean lifts his sword to finish the bastard off—

“ _Oh fuck!_ ”

A sharp, panicked yelp from behind. Dean falters, risking a look over his shoulder. And his eyes fall on a single blaze that somehow managed to sneak past them. A blaze that escaped back into the main section of the corridor.

A blaze that’s now raining smoke and embers onto Dodger.

She tries to block the flames with her shield, but it’s too quick for her, and she cries out again as fire sears across her skin. She twists to run, but she’s cornered against the wall. There’s pure terror in her eyes as she stares up at the blaze bearing down on her.

“ _Help!_ I can’t get away!” she shouts, swinging her sword in a wild panic. She’s quaking, cowering behind her shield. “I—I  _can’t_ —” Another fireball slams into her, knocking her sword out of her hand, and she screams again.

Dean feels his eyes dilate. His breath stutters in the middle of his chest. The world smears and blurs around him. And his reaction, in that split-second, is pure instinct:

He whirls. Sprints towards her. And throws himself between her and the blaze.

“Don’t you  _dare_  fucking hurt her!” he yells through the smoke clogging his throat. And he strikes with every ounce of strength he has, cleaving through the rusted metal pipes of the blaze’s body.

It dies on impact, but he doesn’t bother to see if it dropped a rod. All he does is grab Dodger by the arm and shove her through the door in their man-made wall. He slams it shut behind them and just stands there for a moment, stunned, his chest heaving as he stares at her.  

“—Holy  _fuck_ , Dodge. Are you okay?!”

She’s still trembling. But slowly, she nods.

“I—I think so,” she whispers.

Her face and arms are covered in small yet painful-looking shiny-pink burns from where the embers got her. There’s a smear of soot on her forehead too, and automatically, Dean reaches out to wipe it away with his thumb. It’s just a slight touch, but it’s enough to lift some of the panic from her eyes.

“Food. Now.”

She nods again, reaching into her bag to pull out a cut of mutton and taking a large bite. She chews, swallows, and then says, “Thank you. You totally saved my hide.”

“Oh my god, I thought I was about to watch you die. Holy fuck.”

He rakes his fingers through his hair, letting out a shaky laugh. His heart is still pounding a million miles an hour, like a hummingbird flitting against the walls of his chest. He—he just really doesn’t want to lose Dodger. He doesn’t want to lose  _anyone_ , of course, but especially not her. He wants her to make it to the end just as much as she does herself. He wants her to taste the honeyed sweetness of victory. He wants her to experience the unique joy of a  _last_  night. Of going to bed that one, final time with the knowledge that you’ve won, that you’re done, and that when you open your eyes again, you’ll be somewhere new.

From beyond the wall, a voice rings out: “Hey, you guys, the spawner room’s clear! Get back here and help us!”

“Shit,” Dean says for both no reason and every reason. After a beat, he reaches out a tentative hand and pushes the door back open. Together, he and Dodger slip through and break into a jog back down the still-smoky hallway, pausing only briefly for her to pick up her sword from the floor.

“Dude, don’t fight alone like that,” Dean tells her as they go. “Not here. Make sure you’re always paired up with someone, got it?”

“Yeah. I will.”

“Get yourself an adventure buddy. That’s how  _I_  always manage to stay alive this long.” A smile twitches at his lips, but it doesn’t stick.

_Never go anywhere alone with Dean and expect him to—_

No. Stop it. Not now.

The two of them reach the stairs to the spawner room, where the rest of the others are gathered. Up above on the landing, the fire within the spawner flickers violently, casting shadows of the metal cage surrounding it. All the blazes around them have been slain, but that won’t stay true for long.

“So, basically, now we just stand here and kill them until we have enough blaze rods,” Barry says. He’s standing on the first stair up, his sword gripped in one hand.

“Which is how many?” Dodger asks.

Everyone looks at McJones. McJones looks back.

“Well,” he starts, “the blaze powder is pretty potent, so we don’t need a whole ton. But it’s good practice to have more than you think you need, and also, like I said, not all of the blazes have rods in the first place, so...” He shrugs, which isn’t really an answer.

“We mostly just eyeball it,” Jeff clarifies.

There’s a tiny uptick at the corner of Dodger’s mouth. “Gotcha.”

“That’s kind of our brand here, in case you haven’t noticed,” PBG adds. “Guesstimation.”

Everyone kinda laughs at that, because goddamn it, it’s true. They sure as hell aren’t professionals, and they sure as hell won’t ever  _be_  professionals either.

Then, abruptly, the spawner makes a popping noise like a forceful puff of air. Dean looks up just in time to see two blazes appear out of nowhere in a blast of fire and smoke. Right as they begin to shoot, Jeff bolts up the stairs into the little room with Barry close behind him. They block each fireball that comes their way without even slowing, and they charge right into the blazes, swords piercing through metal. There come the twin rumbles of dying motors, followed by Barry’s voice, thick with disappointment: “No rods.”

But they don’t have to wait long for another shot; no more than half a minute later, the spawner churns out another three blazes. Barry and Jeff turn on one, but the remaining two escape, diving down the stairs and firing at the others. The muscles in Dean’s shield arm tighten as he deflects a fireball, and he manages to land a solid strike on the blaze it came from. When he falls back, Dodger rushes forward, and with a well-timed heave of her sword, she delivers the killing blow. A startled yet pleased grin crosses her face when the blaze crumbles before her, and she proudly pulls the glowing blaze rob from the wreckage and sticks it in her bag.

On the opposite side of the stairs, PBG grunts as he swings his sword at the other blaze. “Frickin’— _guy_  over here!” he cries. “Get outta my face!”

Then, Jeff comes tripping back down the stairs, hacking into his elbow. He pulls an apple from his back and hurriedly bites into it. “Someone go help Barry!” he chokes, eyes watering.

“I got four blazes on me!” Barry growls from inside. Dean hears more fireballs being shot, and with another jolt of adrenaline, he leaps up into the room and hits the first blaze that he sees. In such a small area, the smoke is almost overwhelming, and he struggles to fend off all four of the blazes without also catching Barry in the process. Jeff comes back in time to help, but not before Dean takes two direct hits, forcing him to retreat to eat as well.

Once he’s healed up, he stays on the stairs, close enough to play backup but far enough away that it doesn’t get too crowded. The others follow suit, hopping up to stand beside him in phalanx formation, their swords drawn. It’s slightly underwhelming when the next cycle of the spawner gives them only one measly blaze, which barely survives five seconds with both Barry and Jeff on it. But the cycle after that spits out another four, and every single one of them instantly flies out of the room and opens fire.

Dean drives his sword into the blaze that locks on him, but then out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dodger get nailed in the back. He moves to run to her, but the blaze on him starts shooting again, forcing him to turn and block.

“This is  _stupid!_ ” he yells over the roar of the fireballs being hurled. “Get Dodger out of here! She doesn’t know what to do! Jeff and Barry and I can tank, and the rest of y’all just stay back and get ready to jump in if one of us needs to tag out!”

With a shriek, Dodger slams her sword into the blaze’s head. It’s a powerful hit, but not enough to slay. The blaze goes up in flames, charging up to shoot, but before it can, McJones is there pulling Dodger out of the way. He says something to her, and she nods, falling back. Then, he shields against the fireballs, draws his bow, and finishes the blaze in two shots.

A few feet away, Barry and Jeff have burst back out of the spawner room, and they’re each dealing with a blaze apiece. Dean kills his and goes to help them, and when all is said and done, they’re the proud owners of three more blaze rods. Dean manages to shove a piece of steak in his mouth and gulp it down before two more blazes pop out of the spawner. Jeff meets them head on, knocking them back before they can escape the room. Barry joins him in the fight, and Dean bounds up a few stairs after them.

“You guys!”

A shout, and all of a sudden, PBG comes barreling down the hallway. Not the hallway they came from before, but the one perpendicular to that, running off to the left and right of the spawner room. His hair is flopping into his eyes, and he’s grinning all wide and out of breath.

“You guys, I found the nether wart!” he yells, and everyone spins to look at him in shock.

“Wait, you went off by yourself?” Dean demands. In all the havoc, Dean hasn’t even noticed he was gone.

“Yeah!”

“ _PBG_. You’re  _such_ a—” Dean throws his head back, groaning deep in his throat. “Why the fuck would you do that?! That’s how you fucking  _die_ , dumbass!”

PBG’s mouth dips into a pout. “Well—well—I found what we need, so it worked out great for me this time.”

“ _This time_.”

“Where is it?” Jeff cuts in as he leans out of the spawner room.

“It’s actually super close by!” PBG chirps, perking back up and pointing behind him. “Someone come help me get it!”

Right as he speaks, there comes the loud rumble of blazes, and Jeff scrambles back into the room. Quickly, Dean sizes up the situation. Jeff and Barry are already back to dealing with the spawner head-on. McJones is a few feet away from the stairs, prepared to switch in if either of them needs to bail. And Dodger’s hunkered down with her bow towards the other end of the passageway, sniping any stray blazes that manage to escape.

They should be okay for a few minutes, probably. And anyway, if what PBG said is true, Dean and him shouldn’t be too far away. Letting out a breath, Dean sheaths his sword and turns to follow. It’s only when he hears an extra set of footsteps that he notices McJones tagging along too. As they hurry after PBG, who’s already started back down the corridor, their eyes meet in a sideways glance that McJones breaks first.

PBG leads them off in that direction until they reach an intersection, at which point he directs them to the left. At the end of another short hallway, the bridge they’re on bursts out of the netherrack and links back up with the main part of the fortress. They emerge from behind a wide set of stairs and into a small room. And sure enough, set into the floor on either side of the grand staircase are twin plots of nether wart.

“Oh, good,” McJones says when they see the wart. He seems a little surprised, and so’s Dean; the very place they were looking for was quite literally just around the corner, and yet they had no idea. PBG’s habit of wandering off somehow always ends up being actually useful. Of course, Dean would never admit that to his face. PBG’s enough of a hazard even without being encouraged.

After doing a quick scan of the area to ensure there’s no monsters hanging around, the three of them swiftly get to harvesting the wart. It’s really weird shit—these thick, rubbery stalks with round bulbs stuck on top, their color an unnatural shade of red wine. The bulbs seem to suggest that the plants will flower eventually, but Dean knows from experience that they never do.

Dean carefully pinches his fingers around one of the stems, no more than a few inches high, and yanks it free. He’s on his hands and knees in the soil, with PBG squatting beside him, both of them tediously making their way through each, individual plant. His back is already starting to hurt, and he winces, rolling a shoulder.

“Get some of the sand too,” McJones reminds them from where he’s busy in the plot on the other side of the room. “We need that to grow more of this crap.”

“On it.”

Standing, PBG pulls out a shovel and jams it into the now-empty layer of soul sand—ostensibly called that because of the face-like patterns that tend to form in the dark grit, looking almost like lost souls crying out in agony. It’s unsettling as hell.

They pick in silence for a short while. Dean starts to feel something resembling relief, as if he can finally see a light at the end of the tunnel. The blaze rods and the nether wart are the two most important resources, the two biggest reasons they come here in the first place. They can grow the rest of the wart they need safely back at home, so once they have enough rods, all that’s left will be glowstone, and that’s easy-peasy compared to this. Just build up to the ceiling and mine it out. No more fruitless searching, no more wandering around fortresses for hours and hours, no more  _bullshit_. Thank god.

Suddenly, from a few hallways over, Dean hears a shout mixed with the sound of fire. He looks up in startled concern, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees PBG’s eyebrows crease.

“Sheesh,” PBG mumbles. “Maybe I should go back and help them. There’s only three of ‘em by themselves.” He steps up out of the plot and starts to return his shovel to his bag. “Are you guys good to get the rest?”

McJones waves him away. “Yeah, we’re fine. Go on back.”

“Okay.”

With that, hoisting his baldric higher on his shoulder and drawing his sword, he hurries out of the room.

After a minute more, Dean finishes clearing out the wart on his side and goes to help McJones, who’s only about halfway done. McJones scoots over to make room but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge him.

As they work, Dean catches more blaze noises coming from the spawner. He’s starting to feel like maybe it was a mistake to leave the others behind. Picking wart is a pretty lengthy and tedious task, but it’s not like it’s  _hard_ , exactly. This probably could’ve just been a one-person job. It would’ve been way safer that way, at least. Dean’s jaw tightens, and he starts to pull the wart a little faster.

“Make sure you’re getting the roots too. We can’t replant them if you break them at the stem,” McJones says, then.

“Yup,” Dean mumbles. They don’t make eye contact, and everything goes quiet once more.

God.

This is so fucking awkward.

They haven’t really been alone together since that night Dean got blown up by a creeper, and holy shit, does he feel it. This whole situation is quickly ascending to  _painful_  levels of uncomfortable, like they’re both each other’s elephant in the room. He reaches up to rub his nose with soul sandy fingers, and his eyes dart over to McJones.

Should he say something? Maybe he should say something. Would that make things better or worse? What if he just acted totally normal, like nothing ever went weird and bad between them? Would McJones call him on it? At the very least, whatever reaction he got would have to be better than the whole thing that’s going on right now.

But then again, McJones doesn’t seem bothered by all this talking they’re not doing. He hasn’t looked at Dean once since that single glance when they were following PBG. Dean might as well not even be here. Maybe he should just follow McJones’s lead and keep his big damn mouth shut.

The weeping faces in the sand stare up at him. Empty eyes, gaping jaws hung open in screams. He runs his finger across one, smearing it away. Then immediately regrets it, because the sand gets even more all over his hands than it already was. Soul sand is annoying as hell. It’s kinda sticky, kinda hard to move in. It’s a little like quicksand, holding you down when you try to walk on it.

As Dean starts to yank up another plant, he feels it snap in half beneath his fingers just above the roots. He cusses under his breath before shoving it away in his bag with the others. Most of the wart here isn’t fully grown yet, so like McJones said, it’s supposed to be replanted when they get home. They’ll still be able to use the broken one in brewing, but since nether wart doesn’t seed until it fully matures, Dean just lost them a good three or four additional plants. It’s not too bad on its own, but it really adds up if you don’t—

A sharp, bovine wail shatters the air.

Dean’s heart stops. His breath wisps away to nothing.

He knows that sound. He hears it in his nightmares. They all do.

A second later, there comes a cascade of infuriated howls, echoing from every direction. And if that itself wasn’t a clear enough indication of what happened, PBG’s distant, bone-chilling scream removes all doubt:

“ _Pigmen!_ ”

Dean’s on his feet in an instant. He rips his sword from the sheath, and his eyes slam into McJones’s, the same frozen sort of terror stretched between them. And then they’re tearing down the corridor, the nether wart abandoned.

“ _Piss_ ,” McJones bites out as they run, his voice jolting with each pound of their boots against the ground. They whirl around the corner in a blur of adrenaline and fear. Closing in on the spawner room, Dean’s stomach is shriveling away to nothing. His chest is caving in, a black pit of dread.

Together, they burst into the intersection.

And there are the others, being swarmed by a mob of furious pigmen.

In the blink of an eye, Dean’s on one of them. He drives his sword through its back, drawing a guttural squeal of pain and a spray of blood. It whirls, and its own blade meets his on the upswing. The force of the parry almost hurls Dean’s sword clean from his hand. He wrenches back with a yelp, stumbling away. Unlike any other monster, the pigmen actually know how to swordfight.

A single, bloodshot eye bores into him. Gaping nostrils flare with rage, and saliva drips down from jutting tusks. Fear snakes up Dean’s spine. In a flash, that golden sword is coming down on him again, and he flips up his shield to meet it. Wood splinters in every direction. As soon as the pigman yanks its sword away, Dean lands another strike on it and then immediately falls back into blocking. But the pigman swings blindingly fast at him, completely dodging his shield and catching him across the side. Dean chokes at the white-hot pain that shudders through him. They hit  _hard_.

Their swords meet again with a cacophonous crash. Dean hears another pigman screech from behind him, but there’s no time to look. With a heave, he throws off the pigman’s sword and thrusts his own deep into its neck, aiming for the jugular. And he gets it. Direct hit. Blood spatters across his face, and the pigman collapses.

He lingers just long enough to make sure it’s really dead before going for the next closest pigman, the one that’s attacking Barry. He’s able to catch it off-guard with a blow to its bare skull, and then he fends off the responding attack while Barry stabs it in the heart.

They’re lucky, in a twisted sense: There weren’t too many pigmen in the immediate vicinity. It takes just a minute more for the six of them to slay the entire horde.

As soon as the last one falls, McJones rounds on PBG. “ _Austin_ , I  _told_  you—” he starts thunderously.

PBG jumps back, holding up his hands. “It wasn’t me!” he cries, shrill. “I—I didn’t do it! It was Dodger!”

“— _What?_ ”

All heads swing towards Dodger. She’s standing a few feet away from them, her gaze empty, shoulders heaving. The hilt of her sword is clutched so tightly in both hands that her wrists are shaking. There’s a thick splash of blood across her chestplate, and her eyes are flooded with tears.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought one of them was coming after me, so I just—” Her voice cracks. “Are—are we gonna die now? Did I just k—kill us all?”

Everyone stares at her in stunned silence. For a moment, they’re paralyzed with the weight of what’s gone wrong. The space among them is as cold as ice.

Finally, Jeff shakes his head. “Look, it doesn’t matter. We can’t stay here.” His face is ashen. “We have to move.”

With that, they start to run. They barrel through the door at the end of the hallway and back to the right, following their trail of torches. Dean’s heart slams against his ribs as he goes, and he feels like he’s about to be sick with fear. But he lowers his head and doesn’t let himself slow down.

They reach another junction and take a sharp left. But right around the corner, they’re intercepted: Another cluster of pigmen comes crashing into them, snorting and squealing and swinging their swords before any of them have even a chance to react.

“Oh  _crap!_ ” McJones shouts and rushes forward, beating back the first pigman he reaches. But there’s just so many, and he too gets nailed. Swords slam against armor and shields in a near-unstoppable assault. Jeff, at the front of the pack, takes a direct hit, and there’s a flash of blood that makes Dean’s throat tighten.

“Break through,  _break through!_ ” PBG wails, trying to push them away with his shield. One charges at him, sword raised and readied, but with a cry of his name, McJones whirls in front of him, taking the hit for him and pulling him to safety.

Everyone is screaming at once, shoving and tripping over each other, desperate to escape. Somehow, by some miracle, they manage to slip past, but the pigmen are hot on their heels in pursuit. And they barely make it down the length of a single corridor before they’re confronted by even more coming from the opposite direction.

“We’re fucked!” Dean hollers as they dodge around another three pigmen. “We’re so fucked!” One of them lands a forceful strike on his shoulder, nearly knocking him to the ground. But he’s able to stay upright and keep hurtling forward, and the three are absorbed into the group that’s already after them.

This is the problem. They can outrun any pigman chasing them if they push themselves, but it’s not just that one group on their tail, it’s literally  _every_  fucking pigman within range. Every fucking pigman in this whole area is now trying to kill them. Speed doesn’t mean a fucking thing when they could be ambushed every time they round a corner.

There’s so many pigmen in this goddamn fortress. They’re so unbelievably dead.

Left. Right. Straight. Left again. Dean’s mind has gone near-blank. All he’s focused on is not tripping. On not letting the horde catch up to them. They’re slowly putting distance between themselves and the pigmen, but it’s not enough. No amount of space will ever be enough. The pigmen are relentless.

What they need to do is get the hell out of the fortress. If they get back on the mainland, they’ll have the space to see every single pigman coming their way. They can block themselves in and wait until things calm down again. They just have to escape without losing anyone first.

They’re almost to the bridge now. Drops of sweat roll down Dean’s back. His hands are clammy, balled into fists. He focuses on the nether brick archway in front of him. Maybe they can wall this passageway off once they get out there. It wouldn’t stop the pigmen, but it would at least hold them off for a while. Maybe. His arms pump by his sides. His chest lurches with every gasp of air.

And then, in front of them, Jeff comes skidding to a sudden halt. The rest of them stumble, trying not to slam into him. Dean’s head snaps up in alarm—

“ _Shit_ , the ghasts!” Barry chokes out. And Dean breaks into a cold sweat.

The ghasts.

The ghasts they didn’t kill earlier.

The ghasts that weren’t anywhere close at the time but are now hovering not fifty feet out from the bridge.

A petrified feeling washes over him. He can’t feel. He can’t breathe. All he can do is stare hollowly at the ghasts as they drift through the air around the bridge, their helium coos jarring against his skin.

They’re caught between a rock and a hard place. Behind them, death by pigman. Before them, death by ghast. And they don’t have the time to deliberate over which demise is better.

Barry takes a cautious step forward, but no one follows. Woodenly, he tells them, “We have to keep going.”

“But the ghasts...” Jeff starts, the words trembling, splitting on his lips.

“There’s no other choice. This is the way we came from.”

“But what do we do? It’s not like we can kill them all, so w—what the  _hell_  do we do?” PBG’s voice rises with hysteria.

McJones presses his lips together. “We run, and we pray to god that they don’t see us,” he says through clenched teeth. “That’s what we do.”

“But—”

The pigmen howl so close behind them. A cry of bloodlust. The voices of an army thinking and breathing as one.

“We don’t have time for this!” Barry barks. “ _Go!_ ”

And they go. Sprinting out onto the bridge. The rock chosen over the hard place. An unknowable fate, sealed. Schrödinger’s fucking cat in the box.

The instant they burst from beneath the archways and into the open air, Dean’s veins fill up with an irrepressible sense of  _wrong._ They’re so exposed, so vulnerable, and the ghasts are  _right fucking there_. All it would take is a single ghast noticing them, a single shot aimed at them, to send one of them careening right off the side of the bridge.

Everything around Dean’s shifted out of focus. He can feel his pulse in his eyeballs. His sight is flickering in and out. The ground rushes past beneath him. He can see the ghasts in his peripherals, no more than pale blobs against orange air.

It’s not a long bridge. A couple hundred feet, tops. They should reach the other side in less than half a minute. His mind clings to those facts like they’re the only things keeping him afloat.

_Go, go, go_.

Time ticks by at a lead-footed pace. Every second is a year, a century. It’s like trying to run submerged in water.

But somehow, they’re almost halfway across now. One of the ghasts mewls, and Dean’s nerves jolt. But then his heart throbs once with a desperate hope—a hope that threads through all of them at the same time. This is doable. They might make it. They might actually make it.

They run faster. Chasing after that glimmer of promise. One foot in front of the other. The end of the bridge is almost within reach. Dean feels like he could touch it if he stretched out his hand. His breath comes hard, like a dagger in his ribs. His lungs burn with exertion, and he’s coughing on his own saliva. But his eyes cling to the backs of the others in front of him, leading him on.

And then, there’s a flash of movement.

In slow motion, Dean’s head turns. He stutter-steps, the ground turning to jelly beneath him. His vision tunnels. The world goes as silent as a graveyard. All he can process is the ghast.

The ghast, looking at them.

Its mouth, opening.

The fireball, as blinding as the sun.

Someone screaming.

And.

The impact.

The explosion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	10. Part Ten

###### Part Ten

Smoke.

Dust.

Heat. Pain.

Dean’s on the ground.

His ears are ringing. He tastes blood in his mouth.

This is good, because it means he isn’t dead.

He clings to this thought like a life jacket. He flexes his arms a few times, testing them. Nothing broken. This is also good. He’s two for two on luck right now.

Slowly, so slowly, he tries to sit up. His head is staticky. His licks his lips but comes away with a tongueful of soot. Rubbing his hand across his face, he slides open his eyelids, squinting against the rush of stimuli coming to him all at once. It takes a moment for the tinny echo in his ears to fade out, for the blur in his eyes to right itself. And when it finally does, this is what he sees:

McJones sprawled a few feet away from him, gingerly pushing himself up onto his knees with a groan.

Dodger, Barry, PBG, and Jeff, all together beneath the arched entrance to the tower room on the opposite side.

And in between, a massive, smoking gap where the bridge has been completely split in two.

Dean stares. He stares at the broken bridge. He stares and stares and stares until his rattled mind finally processes the full extent of what’s just happened. And then it hits him all at once, like a bolt of lightning. Like an iron wall of shock slamming down over him.

They’re trapped.

“We’re going to die,” he says, the words rising in his throat like bile. “We’re fucking dead, McJones. Both of us.”

McJones doesn’t reply. His knuckles are bony white where they’re clamped around his thighs.

On the opposite side of what used to be the bridge, the others are staring at them in abject horror. Barry’s leaning heavily against the archway, armor singed and chest heaving. Dodger’s picking herself up from the ground, her face gray and smeared with blood streaming from a deep cut on her forehead. Beside her, PBG’s clinging hard to Jeff, who looks ready to cry. Even from so far away, Dean can see PBG shaking like he’s about to break apart into a thousand pieces.

In an instant, Dean’s standing bolt upright, his head reeling. McJones too clambers to his feet with another grunt. Side by side, with a shared, sick sort of curiosity, they step closer to the break in the bridge. There’s absolutely nothing left. A jagged, still-ablaze edge and then just a sheer drop down to the lava sea far, _far_ below. So far that Dean’s legs wobble when he tries to look. So far that he’s not sure what would kill them first—the lava, or the impact of _hitting_ the lava.

The ghast has floated off elsewhere, apparently satisfied with what it’s done to them. The pigmen are nowhere to be seen either, probably having been stunned by the shockwave of the explosion. That’ll only buy a few seconds at best, though. At any moment, the swarm could descend on Dean and McJones, standing virtually defenseless.

_Oh god._

_Oh god oh god oh god._

“—What about the leaping potion I have?” Barry cries suddenly mid-thought, his voice carrying. “If we threw it over to them, couldn’t they maybe jump across?”

But Jeff shakes his head grimly. “No, it—it’s not strong enough. Even if we managed to get it to them without it breaking, I—I don’t think they’d be able to clear that big of a gap.”

“And there’s only one potion for both of us,” McJones calls back.

“You’re right. _Crap_.” Barry’s eyebrows knit.

“I mean, we could try, but...”

McJones trails off. There’s silence for a long moment as the true gravity—the true _futility_ —of the situation sinks in. There’re no words to describe the feeling that passes through the six of them as they stand there and look at each other across the insurmountable chasm.

Slowly, PBG begins to giggle. But it’s not a good laugh, not at all. It’s shot through with terror and anxiety. His shoulders are hunched, and he’s heaving for air from behind his palms. He does this sometimes, when things really go to shit. And Dean feels the sound of it deep inside himself, reverberating in the hollow of his stomach like a gong.

Then, off in the distance, there’s a rolling rumble of deep growls. Dean flinches, and McJones spins to face him urgently. “We have to get out of here _now_.”

They do, or they’re _really_ going to be trapped. But where the hell are they supposed to go? Dean mumbles something unintelligible. His muscles jolt with an instinctive desire to escape, but he’s paralyzed, rooted to the spot.

On the other side, Jeff cups his hands around his mouth. “Doesn’t there have to be another way for you guys to get back to the entrance?”

“ _How?_ ” Dean bursts out. His word trip over each other in a frantic rush. “Should we—do you think—should we try to get back to the fucking _spawner?_ I—”

There come more throaty snorts from behind. Dean can hear hooves on brick. It won’t be long now. Jeff swallows tightly.

“Maybe—head right and see if you can get back upstairs!” he shouts.

“Head _right?_ But what if that’s just another dead end?! What’s our backup plan?!”

“I...”

Jeff inhales slowly, his hands twisting together. The others blink fearfully beside him. It’s too much, it’s all too much. The ghasts, the lava, the seething air, the stone crumbling away beneath their feet. The black hole of space between the two ends of the bridge. Dean can’t breathe. His head swims again like he’s about to pass out. They’re going to die in this fortress. There’s no way they can make it out of here alive. This is where it all ends.

Finally, Jeff leans forward, as if that couple of inches will make a dent in this nightmare. “We’ll try to get to you guys, okay?” he says, his voice trembling. “Just—hang on. Keep moving. We’ll find you as fast as we can. Just—”

“ _Dean, the pigmen!_ ”

Suddenly, McJones’s fingers are curling around Dean’s. And Dean’s able to snag one last, desperate glance at the others before McJones yanks him away from the wreckage of the bridge.

The wreckage of what could’ve been their only shot at survival.

McJones has the hands of a working man—broad, with tough skin, strong fingers, and a fucking _iron_ grip. There’s no escaping his hold, and Dean’s ripped free of his paralysis and forced into a lurching sprint alongside him. The two of them just barely manage to cut off the approaching army of pigmen, taking a sharp right mere seconds before the pigmen reach the intersection. And then they’re fleeing for their lives, a chorus of sharp, bloodthirsty squeals pulsating in their ears.

Dean spits out an array of curses as he runs. He tightens his gaze on the corridor in front of him, trying to get his bearings. All those torches placed so carefully and painstakingly to show them the way back—they’re fucking useless now. He and McJones are completely on their own. They have no way of knowing where they are or if they’re even going in the right direction.

They’re fast approaching another four-way crossing. McJones points with a jab of his sword.

“Another right, I think.”

“McJones—” Dean’s heaving, gasping as McJones pulls him along, “—this is so dumb. We’re _fucked_.”

McJones risks a split-second glance over his shoulder at the pigmen. “Yeah, well, we’d be more screwed if we’d just stayed there. You heard Jeff. There was no way to cross that gap.”

“Maybe we should’ve risked it. Tried the leaping potion. Even if we didn’t make it, burning to death is better than being hacked up by a million f— _fucking_ pigmen.”

The toe of his boot catches on a chink in the floor, and he stumbles over himself with a hoarse wail. His heart catches halfway through a beat and then slams back down, sending a rush through his veins. McJones exhales sharply.

“We’re not dead yet,” he hisses through his teeth, labored. “Don’t write us off so soon.”

Dean doesn’t say anything.

They swing around to the right again without slowing. They’re still hanging on to each other for dear life, Dean gripping McJones’s hand like it’s the only thing keeping him up. Their steps hit the ground in a sort of mixed-up syncopation as they fly through the corridor. This particular one ends in a wide set of stairs that they throw themselves down, and Dean almost trips again at the sudden change of angle. His free hand scrabbles at the wall to steady himself. _Goddamn it_ , he can’t be doing this. He can’t do this.

They leap off of the stairs into another long hallway. Dean peeks back to see that the pigmen have gotten caught up on the steps, giving them a few seconds’ more lead. But any shred of relief he might feel is snatched away when he glances up ahead to find two more pigmen blocking their way.

“ _Shit_. Our one o’clock.”

McJones nods, no more than a quick jerk of his head. “I see ‘em. And they see us.” The pigmen are already thundering towards them, beady little pig-eyes boring right into their skulls. “We can’t slow down for long. Get ready.”

“Yup.”

They keep charging forward, full speed ahead. It’s only when the pigmen meet them halfway down that they finally break apart from each other and lunge. Dean’s sword sinks into the flank of one of the pigmen, and it cries out in pain. A beat later, it’s answered by the others behind, snarling, vindictive, as their anger boils even hotter.

Dean blocks and then strikes again with reckless abandon. There’s no time to be cautious now. The pigman deflects his sword, but he throws it off and tries again. This time, he pierces straight into its chest.

“One down,” he gasps out, and then he rushes to McJones to help with the other. As soon as he gets close, it turns its attention on him, and he narrowly manages to avoid its swing in time. McJones slashes it across the back, but it whirls and slams him in the chestplate before he can dodge. He shrinks back with a yelp.

“McJones—”

“N—no, I’m fine.” He recovers fast and kills the second pigmen with a final swoop of his sword. “Let’s bail.”

The pigmen chasing them have already nearly caught back up. They can’t even take a breath before they have to split again. They hurtle forward, their heads lowered into the wind. Every heartbeat is a thunderclap in Dean’s head. His muscles burn like a fire deep inside. It takes every ounce of his focus to just keep going.

He slips into a blur, guided solely by instinct. All sense of time vanishes. The only thing that matters is getting away. Getting as far from the pigmen as he can **.** Side by side, they skid around corners and tear through hallways. Dean’s never moved this fast in his life. He can barely feel the ground beneath him. He can barely feel _anything_. All there is inside of him is fear.

They come to another descending staircase. Dean gets halfway down and then just fucking jumps. The impact of the landing shudders up his legs, and then he takes off again, McJones right behind him. At the end of the hallway, they hit another crossing. McJones jerks his thumb off to the left, and they round the turn like the wind. But the corridor almost immediately halts in a dead end of netherrack. Caught off-guard, they falter, and it costs them a few, precious seconds to regain their balance.

“Ugh, I’m sorry,” McJones mumbles as they make a fast one-eighty and charge off down the opposite hallway. “My sense of direction is terrible.”

These are not the words Dean wants to hear, considering he’s been blindly following McJones this entire time. His eyes jump back and forth, hoping to snag on any kind of familiar landmark, but there’s nothing. He has no idea where they hell they are in this fortress. And apparently, neither does McJones.

Dean briefly glances away from the passageway stretching out before them. “We’re—what did Jeff say?” He’s wheezing. “We’re just trying to get up to the ground floor or whatever again, right? The—one that connects with the mainland?”

McJones’s hands curl into fists. “Yeah. But the problem is, there’s only that one exit, and obviously we can’t just retrace our steps now with the bridge out. So we’re looking for a different way to get there, but this place has such a confusing layout, and I didn’t pay close attention to where we were going before, which was so _stupid_ of me, and now I’m getting us all lost in here, and I can’t even remember which—”

And all at once, Dean hears an absolute _wave_ of panic come swelling up through the cracks in McJones’s voice. But he catches it before it spills over, barely managing to hold back the tide. He sucks in a tight breath, and his pace slows to a jog.

“All we need to find is a single hallway that intersects with somewhere we’ve been before, and then we’ll be able to follow our trail of torches back,” he murmurs after a heavy pause. “That’s all. We—we can do that.”

His words are thin and wobbly, like they’re held up merely by the thinnest of thread. And the scary thing is, he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself just as much as he is Dean.

Out of all of them, McJones is usually the one who keeps it together. He guards himself when things get rough and pushes aside his feelings in order to do what needs to be done. But he’s only human; he has his limits. There are moments when he too starts pulling apart at the seams. And in that instant, as Dean stares at him, he looks exactly like PBG did standing on the other side of the broken bridge. His eyes are engulfed with that same, raw dread that only happens when your mind is spiraling off into oblivion.

Dean always hates seeing McJones get so stressed out and wound up, and he especially hates it right now. It gives him visceral flashbacks to the last time McJones was this afraid. It makes him feel lost. Alone. Powerless.

Because if McJones breaks, he’s going to break too. And if he breaks, he’ll fall down and never get up. And the pigmen will come and flay him alive.

But then, McJones closes his eyes. Takes another deep breath. And when he looks up again, he’s pure steel. He draws himself up to his full height and squares off his shoulders. He hauls himself back from the edge.

“We can do that,” he repeats, his voice growing stronger. “We just have to stay ahead of the pigmen. We’ll find our way back eventually.”

And he takes off like a rocket, breaking back into a full-on run. Dean has to hurry to catch up with him, and a momentary flicker of awe tingles in his chest. McJones is fucking amazing. When he really buckles down, not a goddamn thing can stop him.

Together, they press on. They make turn after turn after turn, pelting down corridor after corridor after corridor, searching in vain for somewhere they recognize. With every passing minute, Dean’s stomach knots tighter. There’s no way the broken bridge was the _only_ way back, right? That’s—that’s impossible. With how big this fortress is, there’s no way—they couldn’t really be—

No. He’s starting to lose it. His legs are screaming. His lungs are ablaze. There’s a stitch in his side so sharp it’s as if he’s been impaled. His energy is dwindling. And McJones’s is too, based on the way he’s begun to huff. They can only keep this up for so long. And if they don’t get to safety before their strength runs out…

“Hey.”

McJones’s head pops up.

“What?” Dean asks, voice weak, tattered.

“I—” He looks at Dean. His eyes are round, ringed white all around his pupils. “I don’t hear the pigmen anymore.”

A wash of heat floods over Dean. His heart lodges like a blade in his throat, and he clamps his lips shut so tight it hurts. Instantly, the two of them go still. So still its as if their blood has halted in their veins. So still Dean can almost feel himself turning to stone.  

And they listen.

One breath.

Two.

Three.

And nothing.

No snorts, no growls, not even in the distance.

Just silence.

“….I think maybe we…we lost ‘em,” McJones whispers.

He and Dean stare at each other for a long moment, almost too afraid to believe. Then, he slumps back against the wall and buries his head in his hands, letting out this long, shuddering exhale into his palms. Neither he nor Dean speak. There’s nothing to say.

Dean’s legs are unsteady, and every swallow sears his throat. He wraps his arms around himself and just tries to get his thoughts back in order from where they’ve scattered all across his mind. Bit by bit, he comes down from fight-or-flight. The thrashing of his heart slowly starts to even out.

Finally, McJones straightens, shaking his head. “Oh, that’s a _relief_ ,” he sighs, his arms hanging loose by his sides. “I—I guess we can probably slow down now. At least for the time being.” He shuts his eyes again, just for a beat. “Recharge a little.”

Dean runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Fuck. I… _fuck_ , dude. H-holy shit.”

After another moment, they start off again. They’re still moving with purpose, with a sense of urgency, but they’re free from the constant terror of the pigmen just a few strides behind them. As they go, Dean digs into his bag and pulls out a piece of steak. The tang of the meat on his tongue is grounding, and he chews slowly, pensively.

They turn down another hallway. Part of the wall is missing—probably from a ghast fireball, Dean would guess—and as they pass by the hole, he looks out. His eyes skim over the lava sea, the jagged cliffs, the air fuzzy with heat. It’s an unloving, unforgiving place. And Dean’s completely and utterly _spent_. All he wants is to be surrounded by safety and comfort again. All he wants is to be able to know he’ll live past the next five minutes. All he wants is his goddamn _friends_ , for fuck’s sake.

“I wish we were all back at home,” he says quietly, sliding his palm along the uneven edge of the wall.

“Yeah.” McJones’s eyes lift to meet his. “I do too.”

But—oh god. Did they get all of the blaze rods and nether wart they need? They had to abandon ship as soon as the pigmen turned on them. They might not have been able to grab enough before everything went to pot. And they didn’t even gather _any_ glowstone yet. Before, it seemed like such a simple task. Such a nonissue. But now, the thought makes Dean want to break down in tears. Even if they survive, even if they all find each other again like Jeff said, they still won’t be able to go home. They’re not even done here.

Oh god.

The minutes slip by. They run into a skeleton, from whose corpse McJones pilfers a handful of arrows, and a single, furious pigmen, which lets them know that they’re still being actively hunted. They also come across a chest, but it doesn’t have anything worth taking. They walk on, not exchanging more than a few words between them. As they draw near to the millionth four-way intersection they’ve passed through, Dean slows to eat some more meat.

“ _Oh!_ ”

Dean chokes on his steak. He gags, gulps hard, and his head shoots up frantically. McJones is standing at the entrance to the leftmost corridor, frozen in place. Dean draws his sword, tripping closer, his mind already flicking through every horrible possibility it can invent.

“McJones?”

McJones spins to face Dean so suddenly it startles him. “This is it! We did it!”

“What?”

“We found our way back!” McJones cries. His face is all lit up. “This is—this is somewhere we’ve been before!”

“ _What_?”

In an instant, Dean’s at McJones’s side. Something wrenches hot and hard inside him, adrenaline melding with absolute terror. Quivering, reaching desperately to grip at the bricks beside him, blindly suffocating on his own emotions, momentarily unable to even _think,_ he peers down the corridor. And he sees, with a trembling gaze, that one of the walls is lined with torches.

Torches.

As Dean’s eyes trace them all the way down until the bend of the corner, he hears himself like an echo in his mind, yelling at the others to remember to hang their torches on the left. And the weight of what this could mean for them settles in like a slow trickle.

But—

But. Aside from the torches, this corridor looks the exact same as every other one in this entire fortress. There’s no cobblestone or wood or anything else they might’ve left behind if they really were here earlier. Unease fills his gut, raising a prickle beneath his skin. This seems too good to be true. First the pigmen finally get off their asses out of nowhere, and now they’ve found their way back to where they need to be, just like that? The Nether giveth, sure, but as they know so well by now, the Nether also taketh away. And he’s afraid their good fortune isn’t as good as it seems. He’s just so afraid.

“Are you sure that—” he starts uncertainly.

“ _Yes_ , I’m sure. _Look_ , Dean. The torches are right there,” McJones snaps, and Dean instantly recoils.

 _Ouch_.

Jesus. It shouldn’t sting so much, given the literal life-or-death situation they’re in, but it does. It really does. Something twists deep down in Dean’s chest, and he inhales sharply, studying the grooves in the floor beneath his boots.

After a few seconds, McJones claps his hands together. “Okay, yes. This is very good. Now all we have to do is find the others.”

He starts forward, and Dean follows a step or two behind. “We’re so unbelievably lucky that we noticed this,” he goes on. “We _easily_ could’ve missed it, and then we would’ve been totally screwed, probably. Oh, I’m so happy I wanna cry.” He gives an airy chuckle before adding, “Be careful, though. There could be guys anywhere. Keep your sword ready,”

He looks back at Dean, and Dean nods once. They’re not out of the woods yet, not even close. Like McJones said, they could be ambushed at any moment, and the safety they long for is still little more than a far-off possibility. And as for finding their way to the others, the torches on the walls let them know they’re in the right general area, but that’s about it. The dancing flames line every single passageway they’ve explored, not just the ones they actually travelled all the way through. As they creep through the halls, Dean loses count of how many times they have to double back because the trail of torches either leads to a dead end or just stops with no elaboration.

Even still, though, he too should be happy. He should be over the fucking moon that they might actually make it out of here okay. That they might not meet their bloody ends at the golden blades of the pigmen. That they might almost be free of this absolute fucking _hell_.  

But he’s not.

Not at all. As much as he tries to coax out a single wisp of joy from within the folds of his heart, it refuses to come. He just trudges along, clutching his sword, looking at the back of McJones’s head. A dark, slithery feeling coils in his stomach, and his hands tighten.

Up ahead, McJones peers around another corner. Abruptly, his hand shoots out to stop Dean. “Wait. There’s a couple of pigman down at the other end,” he says, low. “We probably could take them, but it might be better to try to run around ‘em instead. Hm. Gimme a minute to think about this.”

Dean doesn’t reply. He stands there silently, watching McJones rub his chin in thought. He can feel his pulse in his fingertips. Behind his eyes, too.

Finally, McJones nods to himself. “…Yeah, we should just try to avoid that mess altogether. See what we can do.” He hoists his shield up on his arm. “They’re definitely gonna come at us, though, so be prepared to fight either way.”

Dean’s frazzled. His nerves are pulled taut, fraying at the edges like they’re a fucking microsecond from snapping altogether. He’s exhausted and anxious and everything fucking hurts and they _still_ might never find their way out of here despite all they’ve done.

He’s at his goddamn wit’s end. And in the midst of everything, it just slips out:

“I know you hate me.”

The words knife through the air. In an instant, the space between them warps, twists, constricts. Like all the oxygen’s been sucked away, and there’s barely enough room for both of them to breathe. Slowly, McJones turns.

“Dean,” he says tightly, looking pained, “is it possible that we could have this conversation _literally any other time?_ ”

“No.”

And it’s not. Suddenly, Dean’s burning alive with the need to get it all out, to take all the thoughts that’ve been building up his head for all this time and just fucking throw them into the air for all the world to see. He’s played this twisted game for long enough. He has _had it_.

“Just say it. Just tell me what you’ve been thinking about me,” he spits, lurching a step forward. “Jesus Christ, I can’t take it with you anymore.”

McJones draws back, a startled expression rising behind his eyes. “Wh—”

“I get it, you hate me. Can’t blame you for that one. But I don’t need you to be constantly guilt-tripping me, ‘cause I’m already doing that to myself.” He throws out his hands, palms wide open. “I—I’ve been beating myself up for _weeks_ now. You have _no_ idea how fucking bad I feel about what happened in the mineshaft.”

“…What? The _mineshaft?_ ”

McJones’s forehead wrinkles. His apparent bewilderment only makes Dean that much angrier.

“I got you killed! I didn’t bring the milk! It’s all my fault!” he snarls. “What do you want from me? An apology? Because I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But what else can I do? I can’t fucking go back in time and stop it from happening—and believe me, I would if I could.”

“I’m—”

Dean’s voice hardens. “Do you want me to take responsibility? Do you want me to tell you you’re right, McJones? ‘Cause you’re right: I _do_ deserve your hatred. But for fuck’s sake, I wish you wouldn’t be such a passive-aggressive prick about it.”

“I don’t—”

“No, you know _exactly_ what you’re doing. You’ve been avoiding me. And the rare times when you’re not, you’re still dismissive as hell. Even when I’m just trying to ask you how to fucking build something, you completely shut me down. ‘Cause fuck me, right?” He’s loud now. Too loud. “It’s perfectly clear what you think about me, so just cut the chickenshit act and say it to my face.”

He’s breathing hard. His veins are boiling under his skin. His fists are balled by his sides, his jaw is clenched so hard it feels about to crack, and he’s staring McJones down with all the fury he’s ever felt in his life. McJones stares back, his eyebrows steadily furrowing.

“…Okay, I’m really confused here,” he begins carefully, measuredly. “I only started avoiding you _after_ you made it obvious that you’re angry at me for something. You seemed like you wanted space, and so I gave it to you.”

“I’m angry at you because you’re avoiding me!”

“Well—” McJones holds up his arms, “—I’m avoiding you because you’re acting like an A-hole!”

Dean’s vision goes red. He feels like he’s about to fucking explode. “ _Bullshit_. You’ve been like this _way_ before I started calling you out on it.”

“I— _what?_ ” McJones looks taken aback. “I haven’t been like anything! All I’ve done is stay out of your way! I—I don’t even know where this came from. Everything was fine up until after dinner on the first night. All of a sudden, you just got really mad at me out of nowhere, and you’ve stayed mad ever since!”

“Yeah, dinner! That’s what I’m talking about!”

“I have _no clue_ what you’re talking about!”

“Don’t act like you don’t remember, Stewart.”

“I genuinely _don’t_ remember!”

“Oh, for god’s sake. The first night? That shit you said about me over dinner?” Dean’s almost shouting now, but he can’t make himself quiet down. “ _Oh, don’t go anywhere alone with Dean ‘cause he’ll get your ass killed! He’s such a hazard, fuck him! Ha ha!_ ” His voice breaks. He hates it. “N— _now_ do you fucking remember?”

And right then, something happens to McJones’s face. The rigidity and confusion fall away, and his eyes grow wide. He blinks up at Dean for a long, heavy second, his mouth hanging open.

“... _That’s_ what all this is about?” he says slowly.

And the pigmen explode around the corner.

A crash, and they’re there. They’re there. Dozens of them from out of nowhere. Pouring into the corridor like a tidal wave. Like a flood. A stampede. Inescapable.

Dean whirls, and he sees them, and he shatters. Everything blanks. He’s frozen. Time pulls, stretches across him like a rubber band.

And then, with a crack, it snaps together again. And he’s running. Tearing down the passage, every inch of him gone completely numb with terror.

“How did they fucking find us _again?!_ ” he screams as they only just manage to veer around the pigmen at the end of the hallway.

McJones’s head is bowed. “I don’t know, I don’t know!”

To think they genuinely believed they were safe. To think they fell into a false sense of security. How could they have been so fucking _careless_? They’re such idiots. Dean’s heart is falling to shreds with the agony of it. His pulse throws itself against the wall of his chest, goring itself over and over on his ribs.

They never should’ve let their guards down. They should’ve just kept on running until they finally escaped this fucking fortress. They had a shot at making it out of here alive, and they threw it away like it was nothing. And now, here they are again, easy prey ready for the slaughter.

Regret. That’s all Dean can feel as he sprints forth into the unknown. Regret so pure it’s excruciating. The backs of his eyes are searing-hot, and he’s panting again, fighting for breath. His gaze clings desperately to the trail of torches on the wall. It’s their only hope now.

Dean senses the army of pigmen as if they’re little more than an inch behind him, but he’s too afraid to look. With every second that slips past, he braces himself for the _slurch_ of a sword being driven through his back. Before them, the path branches and branches in a thousand different directions, but nearly all are torch-marked, and they have scarcely a moment to deduce which is the true way back. They could so easily get themselves lost again, destroy everything they’ve worked for.

They’re pushing themselves to the very limit, but it’s still not enough. As they wing around corners and streak through hallways, Dean prays to finally hear the voices of the others, coming to rescue them. But there’s only the squeals of the pigmen right in the curves of their ears. They’re all alone in this. His vision blurs over, and a choked wail lodges in his throat like a shard of glass. But he smothers it. Squints until his eyes right themselves again.

Up ahead is another junction. “Go left,” McJones croaks, and so they do. This time, instead of entering another corridor, they find themselves plunging into a small room with a narrow set of stairs against the back wall. And _yes_ —Dean remembers this. He remembers this place. This is definitely the right direction. At least that’s something.

McJones doesn’t waste a second; he rushes up the stairs in a mad dash, and Dean stays close behind. They take the steps two at once, trying not to get hung up and lose time. But then, right as McJones nears the upper floor, Dean hears him suck in a sharp gasp. It only takes an instant to see what’s startled him: Standing at the very top of the stairs, blocking their escape, is a wither skeleton.

The wither skeletons are massive, built of stocky, shadow-gray bones and standing even taller than PBG. And just like the pigmen, they come armed. Dean barely has a chance to register what’s going on before the skeleton strikes, its stone sword a blur in the air. With a cry of alarm, McJones swings up to parry—

—And misses.

The blade slams full-force into his chest, knocking him back. He stumbles hard. His hand shoots out, grabbing frantically at the railing to steady himself. But he’s too slow. Right before Dean’s eyes, his fingers slip away, and down he goes. Plummeting backwards. Hanging in free-fall for a fraction of a second before gravity catches up. And he slams into the bottom of the stairs with a crunch that makes Dean sick.

“ _McJones!_ ”

But Dean can’t go to him; the wither skeleton is already advancing, primed to attack again. He yanks his sword out and charges into it. One strike. Two strikes. Block the responding swing with his shield. Three strikes, four, and it’s dead. Dean whirls around and launches himself back down the stairs.

“McJones!” he shouts again, hoarse.

McJones is in a heap on the floor, curled into a crumpled ball. He’s halfway falling over, leaning heavily on his elbow with his chin tucked into his chest. As Dean rushes to him, he slowly pushes himself onto his feet and stands. But he’s shaky. Unsteady. Wobbly like a newborn deer. He’s listing to one side, arm hanging away from his body, and his baldric is slipping. There’s a rip in the chest of his shirt above his armor, and through the blood dripping down his chestplate, Dean can see an ashy blackness beginning to creep up his skin in jagged lines like cracked glass.

Wither poison.

No.

No, no, no.

Dean can’t breathe. His lungs are caving in on themselves. Their eyes meet, and all of sudden, McJones’s face tightens. Dean can see the inner gears of his mind twisting. Then, abruptly, he speaks, his voice low and resolute:

“You have to leave me behind.”

Dean reels back. “ _What?_ No! I can’t—”

“I’m too weak to run. I’ll just slow you down.”

“But—”

McJones sinks back to the ground, his legs folding like paper beneath him. He’s sallow. Wilting like a flower. “Go, Dean. Save yourself,” he murmurs darkly, eyelids fluttering. “Meet up with the others and come back for me. I—I’ll wall myself in and wait.”

The pigmen are quickly closing in on them. They didn’t have much of lead at all. Only a passageway or two at most, judging by the howls growing ever louder. They’ve got maybe thirty seconds before the pigmen reach the stairwell. Just enough time for McJones to block himself in. Just enough time for Dean to get away.

But Dean knows—god, he _knows_ , deep down in his gut, that if he leaves right now, McJones won’t be alive when he comes back. If he even _can_ come back. The weight of the world presses down on his shoulders. That same, icy paralysis starts to twist up his legs like vines. But there isn’t time for this. The final moments are ticking down. If he doesn’t act _now_ , they’ll both die. So, he makes a panicked, split-second decision:

He bends. Scoops McJones around the shoulders and knees. And hauls him up into his arms. McJones makes a feeble noise of surprise, but Dean ignores him.

And then, Dean turns and runs like hell.

He barrels up the stairs and throws himself down the corridor, chest heaving with each breath. McJones isn’t particularly light, and he isn’t particularly strong. There’s no way he should be able to hold McJones right now, considering how drained he is. Probably the only thing that’s keeping him from collapsing is sheer adrenaline. His muscles are going to _kill_ him tomorrow.

That is, they will if the pigmen don’t get there first.

Already, he’s realizing that this was a terrible idea. This is exactly fucking why he doesn’t like having to take charge. He can hear the pigmen right behind him, and he’s _so_ much slower now, weighed down like this. And when his gaze briefly cuts down to McJones, Dean finds his eyes closed and his head lolled to the side.

“ _You—okay?_ ” Dean manages to rasp. McJones makes some semblance of a whimper, and his fingers grasp weakly at Dean’s arm. But that’s it. He’s fading fast. Wither poison doesn’t fuck around.

Pushing away the cold shot of fear that injects itself into his gut, Dean looks back up to find himself at another crossroads. His heart swells up into his throat as it hits him that McJones can’t help him anymore. He has to pick the correct path all by himself. He slows to look around, but all he can afford is maybe a second or two of hesitation.

 _…Straight_ , he decides. Anxiety rips through him like an earthquake, but he goes for it anyway. Dear fucking god, he hopes that this is the right way. It’s a one-outta-three chance. He doesn’t like those odds, but he’ll take them.

He only realizes he’s biting his lower lip when blood spills out onto his tongue in a flow of copper. His arms are really starting to burn. He tries to prop McJones more against his shoulder to lift some of the strain, but there’s only so much he can do without stopping. So he tries his damnedest to ignore the pain and just focus on escaping. On putting as much distance between themselves and those bloodthirsty pigmen. On not tripping and losing his already-shaky hold on McJones.

What he tries _not_ to think about is how limp McJones is starting to go against his chest.

One step at a time. Don’t think, don’t feel. Don’t stop moving, or else you’ll die. _Both_ of you. His forehead is slick. His glasses are slipping. Each ragged inhale scorches his lungs. Heat washes over him in floods. He follows the trail of torches, weaving in and out, around and around. The cold, bony fingers of fear have him around the neck like a vise, slowly crushing his windpipe.

He rounds another corner to the right. Everything hurts. He’s near-hyperventilating. His chest is collapsing in on itself. The muscles in his arms are tearing. It takes almost more energy than he has to just keep from folding in half. To just keep his head up.

And then, his hazy eyes catch a faint shape off in the distance. Something near the end of the corridor. As he gets closer, his vision sharpens, zeroes in. And he sees.

A cobblestone wall with a door set into it.

One of the emergency shelters they built earlier.

 _Salvation_.

Something inside him seizes. A fresh wave of adrenaline surges through his veins, and suddenly he’s flying. Sprinting harder and faster than he ever thought he could, propelled by a magnitude of desperation that he can’t even put words to. The pigmen roar behind him, but he’s blocked them out. He’s blocked _everything_ out. All that matters is that door.

“We’re almost safe,” he whispers, in case McJones can somehow still hear him. “J—just hang on a little longer.”

 _Almost safe. Almost safe._ The sound of his own voice swirls around him. His eyes are locked on the door. He closes in. His steps slam against the ground in rapid-fire.

Twenty feet.

Ten.

Five.

Two.

He bursts through the door with all the strength he left. As soon as he’s inside, he stumbles to a halt and spins around, kicking it shut again with the sole of his boot. Then, clutching McJones tighter to himself, he slowly begins to inch backwards. Waiting, bracing himself, for what he knows is coming:

A _wham_ like a thunderclap as the army of pigmen come crashing against the door. Dean hears them as they pound and scrabble at the wood, their screams of rage barely muffled. There’s so many of them out there, held back by only a thin frame. The door creaks under the combined force of their weight. But even still, it holds strong.

For now. But now is all that matters.

Gingerly, Dean lowers McJones to the ground, propping him against the wall beside the crafting table from when they were here before. But even with that support, McJones still slumps sideways like a ragdoll the instant Dean lets him go. That ashy color is creeping across his collarbone and up his neck by now, dark tendrils of wither twisting out like knotted tree roots embedded in his skin.

All Dean can do is just stare down at him. He’s pale, his arms slack beside him and his head falling forwards. His eyes are still shut beneath drooping lids. The only sign that he’s even alive is the slight movement of his chest.

And all at once, Dean’s right back in that fucking mineshaft.

The feeling comes out of nowhere, hitting him like a rock to the skull and making everything sway around him. He sees it like two images superimposed: McJones now, withering away from the rot in his bones, and McJones then, bleeding out from the punctures in his arm and slowly suffocating on nothing but his own lungs. The parallels jar against Dean’s mind like razor blades. Everything’s playing out exactly as it did before. McJones is dying, dying, slipping away through Dean’s fingers like sand.

And he can’t do a thing but watch.

_Listen to me. I’m gonna die, and you know it._

Terror grips at his chest. _No_ , he thinks, and he’s pretty sure he says it aloud too. He can’t lose McJones. Not here. Not again. He can’t go through this again.

 _Dean_. _I—I can’t breathe_.

But what the fuck does he do? What the fuck _can_ he do? McJones is clearly too weak to eat, so what else is left? He doesn’t know how to fix this. He doesn’t know a fucking thing.

The memories are coming in a flood now. Everything rushes back to him like a wall of water, crashing down and destroying everything in its path.

Fingers on his arms, digging in. Wide eyes pleading for help. Choking. Gasping. Dripping blood.

As much as he tries to pull himself together, he can’t. He’s breaking. He’s falling apart. He’s can’t go on anymore. There’s nothing. It’s too late. McJones is going to die, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do. He’s powerless. He’s useless. He’s just so fucking useless. Useless, useless, _useless—_

—Wait.

No.

With a start, Dean realizes.

He’s not powerless. He’s not useless. No, not at all.

He—

He has the metaphorical milk this time.

The thought swells inside of him, working into each and every fold of his brain until he finally wraps his mind around it. He starts to tremble, going lightheaded.

He’s not powerless.

And he won’t— _he will not_ —fucking let this happen again.

He falls to his knees, dropping his bag and ripping into it. Frantically, he digs through the contents until he snags a glimpse of what he wants: the potion of regeneration he picked just last night. He pulls the bottle free, sending the potion sloshing violently inside, and shoves himself over to McJones.

“Don’t you die on me, Stewart,” he hisses, and his voice is so raw. “Not like this. Don’t you fucking dare.”

With shaking fingers, he yanks the cork out of the bottle and throws it aside. And then, carefully, he presses the rim to McJones’s mouth, tipping the bright, glimmering, orchid-colored liquid down his throat.

Dean’s not sure if he expects some kind of immediate change, but there isn’t one. McJones doesn’t move. His eyelids don’t flicker. His muscles don’t shift. Everything around Dean feels muted, distorted as his eyes fix themselves on McJones. He’s clutching the bottle so hard it feels like it might shatter in his grip. His pulse punches against his eardrums. And the abrupt, irrational thought that fires through his head like a rocket is—

 _If he’s dead because of me,_ again _, I’m going to throw myself into lava._

A heart-stopping moment passes. Dean’s holding his breath, every inch of him about to implode into smithereens.

But then, slowly, so slowly it might’ve just been an illusion, McJones stirs. He makes a sort of barely-audible murmur way down in the base of his throat. Another instant goes by.

And then, he bursts into a coughing fit.

Relief hits Dean so hard that he dissociates for a second. It’s overwhelming. Shining inside of him like the sun as he watches McJones hack up a goddamn lung. His eyes sting hard with pricking tears, and he cups his shaking hands over his mouth, the empty bottle tumbling forgotten to the ground beside him.

McJones is alive. McJones is _alive_.

He’s actually going to cry. He draws in a shaking breath through his fingers, trying in vain to blink away the mist clouding his vision. His arms hurt like nothing else, but he hardly even notices. All he cares about is McJones.

Finally, McJones’s coughing trails away to quiet. With a raspy grunt, he runs the back of his hand across his cheek and cracks open his eyes.

“Please never do that again,” he says. His voice comes out gravelly. “I...I appreciate you trying to save me, but I was _so_ afraid you were going to drop me on my head. And that would’ve been it for me. And you too, probably.”

He glances at Dean wearily, like he’s waiting for a smartass remark, but Dean can’t. He can’t muster even a single word. He’s too choked up, clogged with the tears he’s fighting tooth and nail to repress. McJones seems to pick up on this after a few seconds, because he looks away with a sigh, rubbing his face again.

“But that was good thinking with the potion,” he eventually murmurs. “I totally—” he clears his throat, “—totally forgot we had those.”

Dean lets his head hang down, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He gulps once, twice, thrice, until the lump starts to shrink.

“Are you still withered?” he manages to ask.

“No. It’s going away.”

It is. The black tendrils have completely vanished from his neck, and the ones still visible under the skin of his collarbone are fast-receding. In another minute, they’ll be completely gone. McJones runs his finger absently over them before reaching down for his bag. But he’s still a little bit weak, a little bit unsteady, and Dean sees him fumble with the clasp. Before he can keep trying, Dean shoves a hand into his own bag and holds out a cut of steak. McJones takes it with a quiet _thank you_.

Once he’s finished eating, he looks to Dean once more. “We should really get moving now. The pigmen aren’t breaking the door down anymore, which means they’ve probably found a different way to get to us.”

His eyes slide over to their manmade wall, narrowing at the now-silence coming from behind it. Mouth flattening, Dean follows his gaze. Truth be told, he hadn’t even noticed the pigmen were gone until McJones just pointed it out. But yeah, he’s leaning towards that not being a good sign.

“…So you’re really okay to, like, run and shit, dude? Are you sure you don’t want to rest for a little longer?” he offers after a beat, regarding McJones with a slight frown. Considering McJones can’t even manage to open his own fucking bag, it doesn’t seem like the best idea for him to go right back to sprinting at full tilt.

“I’m good enough.” Slowly, McJones leans over to push himself up. “I’m stable, at least, and that’s what really matters, so we might as well ju—”

As soon as he puts his weight onto his left arm, he makes one of the most horrible noises Dean’s ever heard. His elbow buckles, and he collapses into the wall, a sharp whine clawing its way out of his mouth.

Horror expands in Dean’s gut as fast and hard as a shockwave. “ _Shit,_ what’s wrong?” Instinctively, he reaches out, but he stops himself short of actually touching McJones.

“—My shoulder.” McJones’s voice is wound tight, wisping through gritted teeth. He clutches at his arm with a shaking hand. “Oh _crap_. I think I—I must’ve dislocated it when I fell down those stairs. It’s—”

He tries to move his arm, but the instant his shoulder shifts, he makes another strangled sound, his face contorting in agony. Moving cautiously, almost fearfully, he lifts his other hand and eases the strap of his baldric off his shoulder, letting it slip down to his waist. As he does so, Dean leans closer and instantly realizes that he’s right: His shoulder is visibly out of place.

“Oh Jesus,” Dean says, and his heart does a swan dive.

McJones takes a few, deep breaths before he finally glances at Dean out of the corner of his eye. “Dean,” he starts, sounding vacant, as if he’s mentally steeling himself for something. Dean can already tell it isn’t going to be good. “If it’s actually dislocated, you’re going to have to reduce it for me.”

“R—reduce?”

“Relocate.”

“ _What?_ ” Dean jerks away. “No, no, fuck, I can’t do that! I—are you _insane?_ ”

“How the heck do you think I'm supposed to do it by myself?! I need you!”

McJones’s voice rises into an almost-wail, cracking in a way that makes Dean’s chest fucking _ache_. After a second, his head lowers, and he draws his arm in, propping it up with the opposite hand.

“Can’t—” Dean swallows thickly, “—why can’t we just get you the hell out of here and deal with it once we’ve met up with the others again?”

McJones’s eyes have gone glassy. Each word he speaks is strained. “We could do that, _maybe_ , but it would be so dangerous. I’d—either have to try to use my sword with my right hand, which I’m terrible at, or just use my shield alone. And neither of those are good options. If we ran into a—anything bad at all, I’d be screwed.”

“Fuck, okay. Okay.” Dean digs his hand into his hair, his mouth going dry. Then, he blurts, “But what if I hurt you?”

“You won’t. I’ll guide you through it. I—” McJones sucks in a ragged breath like broken glass. “I trust you.”

Dean’s terrified out of his goddamn mind. He’s terrified he’s going to fuck this up like he fucked everything up last time. But there’s no other option, and he knows it. They have no idea where the others are at this point, so banking on finding them quickly would be a huge mistake. McJones really would be completely vulnerable out there without the use of his dominant arm. And, worst of all, he’s in pain. So much pain that he can barely fucking move. He hasn’t said as much, but it’s obvious just by looking at him that he’s really, really suffering.

And Dean’s the only one who can make it stop. His heart stumbles once more at the thought, but then resolve settles over him in a chill.

“Okay,” he says again, finally. “What do I have to do? How do I help you? Walk me through this.”

“Well, first thing, I gotta get in a better position.” McJones moves back so that he’s fully sitting up straight with his chest out. Even that slight movement of his shoulder makes his jaw lock up. “Now, you have to support my arm. Hold my wrist with one of your hands, and put the other under my elbow.”

Dean scoots forward until he’s kneeling right in front of McJones. Hesitantly, he reaches out to take McJones’s wrist. McJones’s skin is hot to the touch. Then, he slides his other hand beneath McJones’s elbow, and suddenly he’s holding McJones’s arm all by himself. He tries to squash the voice in his head that instantly screams _You’re going to hurt him!,_ but even still, his nerves vibrate with fear.

McJones continues: “Good. Okay, now—” his eyes meet Dean’s, and Dean feels something inside of him go off-kilter, “—now don’t do _anything_ until I tell you to. Just listen to this part. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“So, what you’re going to do is move my arm so that my _upper_ arm is flat against my side, and my _fore_ arm is out at a right angle with my palm facing up.”

Dean mimics the position, being careful not to jostle McJones’s arm in the process, and McJones nods faintly. “Exactly. Just like that. Then, take your hand that’s under my elbow and move it up to my lower bicep, and without moving my upper arm, start rotating my forearm away from my body until you feel resistance.”

“Resistance? What do you—”

“I’ll tell you when to stop. Don’t worry about that part. After that, you’re gonna lift my arm up like you’re moving my elbow towards the ceiling, but make sure you keep it in that same bent-outwards position.”

Dean chews on the insides of his cheek as he listens, trying as best he can to absorb every step of the process. He studies McJones’s misshapen shoulder, his wrist held firm in Dean’s hand, his shivering fingers curled loosely into his palm, his tensed forearm—

And like a strike of lightning, Dean remembers the scars. The scars. The two blotchy puncture scars hiding just beneath the sleeve of McJones’s left arm, _which Dean is currently holding_. Oh god, it’s the same fucking arm. Fuck this. Fuck everything that’s happening right now. It’s so overripe with irony that Dean wants to puke.

“Once my upper arm is almost out straight from my body, start rotating my forearm in towards my chest,” McJones is saying. “My shoulder should slip back into place on its own at that point, no force necessary. Just be sure to keep a good grip on my arm. You might have to do that inwards rotation a few times, but it’ll work. Hopefully.”

He breaks off, then, drawing in a wincing inhale. When he speaks again, his stare fixes itself right back on Dean. “The most important thing out of all of this is that you _go slow_. My muscles will probably spasm when you try to move my shoulder, and if you rush it or pull on it or anything like that—well, first of all, you’ll really hurt me, but you could also tear my muscle or fracture the ball of my shoulder. And those are both a lot worse than a simple dislocation. So take your time with this, please.”

A vague, woozy sensation comes over Dean, like maybe he might pass out. But just nods once, blinking hard. “S-slow and steady. Gotcha.”

And with that, it’s all up to him now. He takes a breath. Lets it out. _Slow and steady_.

Alright. Step one.

Tightening his grasp just a fraction, just enough to be steady, he moves McJones’s upper arm over until it’s pressed flush against his side. Then, with the other hand, he carefully rotates his wrist around to face upwards. Okay. So far, so good.

Step two. He slides his hand up and curls it around McJones’s bicep. Ever so gently, he begins to rotate McJones’s arm outwards. But the instant he does, he feels McJones’s muscles tighten violently under his palms, startling a gasp out of him.

“ _Just—wait_ ,” McJones chokes out before Dean can say anything, and he digs his fingernails into his skin. His lips are clamped together so hard they’ve lost all color, like it’s taking all everything he has in him just to keep from crying out. And Dean fucking _incinerates_ with the need to help him, but he’s already doing all that there is. So he just stays as still as he can until the spasms die down, and McJones lets him know he should continue with a brief nod, no more than a flick of the chin.

Little by little, he turns McJones’s arm out, keeping his elbow glued in place like a fulcrum as he goes. His thumb is pressed into the crook of McJones’s elbow, and he can feel McJones’s pulse jumping through his skin like an erratic drumbeat. His gaze climbs involuntarily to McJones’s shoulder once more, but he jerks it back down to what he’s doing.

Dean’s got no idea how far he’s supposed to go with this. _Resistance_ , McJones said. But he has absolutely no idea what that means. He met _resistance_ when McJones’s muscles started spazzing out two fucking seconds into this thing. He’s nearly twisted McJones’s arm a full ninety degrees out by now, but McJones hasn’t given the high sign yet, which is really scaring him. If he over-rotates—

“Stop. Stop, that’s good.”

And there it is. Dean freezes as soon as the words leave McJones’s mouth. A vague shudder runs through him, like a ripple beneath the surface of a pond. But he’s trying so fucking hard to keep himself from freaking out, because Freaking-Out Dean is not who he needs to be right now.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs warily. “Do—do you need a break, or—”

“No. I’m alright.” McJones’s eyes are closed, his face as rigid as a statue. “You can keep going. L—lift my arm up now.”

“Mhm.”

Step three. Dean’s clammy fingers adjust around McJones’s wrist. His other hand he repositions so McJones’s elbow is resting squarely on his palm. Then, moving one timid inch at a time, he slowly draws McJones’s arm up elbow-first.

He’s never been so intensely focused on anything in his life. The world around them has faded to a dull blur in the back of his consciousness. Fat droplets of sweat are trickling down the curves of his chest beneath his shirt. His teeth are dug into his lower lip, and his eyes are trained unblinkingly on McJones’s arm in his hands. He can feel McJones quivering slightly with every shallow breath drawn in. And every single catch in the swell of McJones’s chest makes Dean flinch, terrified he’s screwing something up. All he can hear is McJones’s voice in his head on loop, warning of broken bones and ripped muscles and indescribable pain.

If he hurts McJones here, he’ll never, ever forgive himself.

Finally, Dean stops again when McJones’s upper arm is a little less than perpendicular to his shoulder. He licks his split lips and blows a loose strand of hair out of his eyes. Last step. He can do this.

Squeezing McJones’s elbow a little harder, Dean starts rotating his forearm back inwards, undoing what he did just a minute ago. His heart hammers against his chest as he goes, and he’s shaking from somewhere deep inside. Even if he does everything right, there’s still a good chance this won’t work. He has no medical training. He’s never done anything even remotely like this before. This is a fucking crapshoot, is what it is.

But he doesn’t falter. He won’t let himself. He refuses. He may not be physically carrying McJones anymore, but he’s still holding the whole of McJones’s wellbeing in his hands. As his fingers clamp around McJones’s arm, he feels their pulses match up. And for just a moment, their hearts beat in time together once, twice, before they split away again.

McJones needs him. He’s all McJones has right now. And he _cannot_ fucking falter. His grip stays locked. His eyes stay focused. And he keeps moving, pressing McJones’s arm back in towards his middle, just twisting, twisting, twisting—

There’s a _thunk_ , and McJones’s whole arm shifts. Dean’s head snaps up to look at him.

“Was—was that it?”

McJones’s eyes are wide open. “That was it.”

Dean lets out a forceful breath. He gently lowers McJones’s arm to his side and sits back, sagging like a deflated balloon. In front of him, McJones tests his shoulder with a few, careful raises of his arm. There’s nothing but pure relief in his eyes.

“Oh man, that already feels _so_ much better,” he whispers. He looks at Dean, visibly softening as the pain seeps away. “You did that really well. Thank you.”

“Oh my god,” Dean says, dazed.

He did it. He fucking did it. Not only did he save McJones from being withered to death, but he also put his goddamn _dislocated shoulder_ back in the socket. He can barely wrap his mind around it. His hands find his forehead, and he breaks into an incredulous, dumbfounded smile.

“I’m a fucking legend. Holy _shit_.” His voice is wobbling all over the place, but he can’t reel it in. He did it. _He did it_. “I can actually—I can do something besides get people killed. I—holy fucking god.”

He’s not really thinking when it comes out. And he’s talking entirely to himself, not McJones. But when he sees McJones bow his head and glance away uncomfortably, he realizes what he’s just done, and his smile fades. He shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t have mentioned it at all. It’s the exact wrong thing to have brought up in this situation. God, that was so dumb of him.

But still, he’s happy. He’s so happy. He held it together that whole, entire time and did everything perfectly right. McJones is okay. He _made_ McJones okay. The two of them are safe and stable, and it’s all because of him. And now, finally, they can focus back in on their overarching goal, which is getting the hell out of here before the pigmen find them again. So he clears his throat, about to suggest that they—

“You know I don’t blame you for my death last time, right?”

McJones says it point-blank.

There’s no lead-up, no nothing. Just words from out of nowhere, piercing straight through Dean’s soul like an arrow.

All the air leaves his lungs. Whatever he was about to say shrivels up and dies on his tongue. For a long, long moment, he stares at McJones in heavy, shaken silence.

McJones’s eyes are still averted. He’s studying something over to Dean’s right from beneath lowered eyelids, his mouth pursed in a kind of awkward way. Sitting there before him, Dean’s numb. Completely numb. He can’t feel anything other than a stunned kind of coldness, like he’s been slapped so hard he’s fallen to pieces. Like he’s forgotten how to be.

And then, all at once, he just blurts, “ _What?_ You _don’t?_ ”

McJones swallows, slow, and his gaze pulls itself back over to Dean.

“No, why the heck would I?” he says.

And something must have broken in Dean’s brain, because he knows what those words mean at the dictionary level, but he—he can’t _understand_ them. They sound foreign to his ears, dancing around above him, taunting him just out of his reach. And the more he tries to parse them out, the more twisted up he gets, confusion and frustration and dismay whirling around like a tornado that rips him right to shreds.

“The _milk!_ ” he explodes. His hands are clenched together so tightly it hurts. “You died because I didn’t bring the fucking milk, and then I couldn’t save you from the poison!”

McJones blinks once, twice. He tilts his head the slightest bit, eyebrows knitting. “…Why would you have brought the milk? Why would you ever even _think_ to take it? All we were doing was mining; it’d have been stupid to expect you to have it. I didn’t bring any with me either, y’know.”

It’s the exact thing PBG said to him at McJones’s funeral all those weeks ago. But if it sounded doubtful from PBG, it’s absolutely inconceivable coming from McJones himself. Dean can’t—he can’t. He can’t deal with this. This is fucking ridiculous. There’s no way McJones is sitting here in front of him and saying this shit to him with a straight face. Except he is. And Dean can’t find an ounce of sense in it.

“Well—well—I shouldn’t—” He’s spluttering, tripping on his own tongue. “I shouldn’t have even dragged you into the mineshaft in the first place! You didn’t even _want_ to go—you said _no, Dean, that’s a shitty idea, we’re both going to fucking die_ —but I didn’t listen to you because I’m so—”

“Actually, I’m _glad_ you dragged me into the mineshaft,” McJones interrupts, huffing out an airy chuckle that rattles Dean to the core. “I had fun. Seriously. You were right when you said we needed a break from all that mining. A _real_ break, not a five-minute pit stop to drink some water. I never would’ve taken one on my own, but it was good for me that you forced me into it, I think. And I don’t regret it. Well, I regret dying, but everything else was nice.”

And just like that, all the fight goes out of Dean. The tornado of emotion drops him like he’s nothing, leaving him a shattered heap on the ground. He’s in complete and utter disbelief. The kind of disbelief where it feels like he might cry.

McJones is regarding him in this strange, featherlight way, face written over with surprise and concern blended into one. It startles Dean, tangles him up inside. He makes a sort of scratchy noise, still desperately trying to verbalize everything that’s spiraling through his head.

“But I killed you. I—” He holds out his hands, floored. “It’s my fault.”

“Dean, no. The _spiders_ killed me. It’s not your fault, and it never was.”

Dean inhales sharply, a jolt of something hot firing through him. “Then—then why the fuck did you say that shit over dinner about me always getting people killed?!” he demands shrilly, jerking forward.

“It was a _joke!_ ”

Dean stops dead.

“What?”

McJones raises his good arm. “I was _kidding_ when I said that, Dean!”

“You—”

“I mean, we always give each other crap for everything, don’t we? We all make fun of each other, but we never actually _mean_ anything by it. That’s just what we _do_ , isn’t it?” There’s a note of desperation in his voice, and a fair amount of befuddlement too, as if he’s rolling this over and over in his mind, trying to fit each and every piece of the puzzle together.

“You were kidding,” Dean repeats. His ears are ringing. Everything sounds muffled, like he’s been completely submerged in water.

“Yeah. I was.” McJones drags his hand down his face. “But I guess—ugh, I really should’ve known better. You were so upset about what happened, and it should’ve occurred to me that maybe you wouldn’t be okay to make light of it so soon. It was ridiculously insensitive of me to say what I did. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry.”

A joke.

It was a joke.

Holy fucking shit, it was just a joke. He didn’t mean it. _He didn’t mean it_.

Dean can’t tell what he’s feeling. There’s shock—there’s a lot of shock, because this changes so much. So, so much. There’s some indignation too, because _what the fuck, McJones?_ What kind of fucking joke was _that_ supposed to be? Way too soon. _Way_ too soon. Holy shit.

But mostly, there’s just this sense of relief that’s so whole, so complete that Dean feels boneless. Like some part of him has been on edge ever since McJones died last world, and now, only now, is he finally able to truly relax.

McJones doesn’t hate him. McJones never hated him.

What happened wasn’t his fault.

Oh god, that feels so good to think.

McJones must see the look in Dean’s eyes, because he leans closer, his hand dropping down. “Did—did you really think that I blamed you this whole time?” he asks, voice just a little too quick.

And Dean could lie. He could downplay it, pretend like he’s not a stupid scrub who gets bent out of shape for literal _weeks_ over one fucking joke. But he doesn’t.

“Yeah,” he says quietly instead. “Yeah. I mean, I already blamed myself, so...y’know.” He tries for a laugh, but it doesn’t come out quite right.

“Oh man.” McJones sucks his teeth, a rueful expression coming over him. “I really am sorry. If I’d known what you were going through, I would’ve...I dunno. I would’ve done _something_. I was genuinely just trying to make a joke. Lighten the mood a little. I promise, I’d never say something like that about you and actually be serious.”

He’s still looking at Dean with the most genuine softness Dean’s ever seen from him. “You’re an important member of this team, Dean,” he says. “You’re one of my best friends. And I meant it when I told you I trust you. I trust you with my life.”

“Even after the spiders?” Dean mutters.

“Especially after the spiders.”

Dean draws back, thrown even further for a loop. “Wait, _why?_ ”

“Because think about it—you did literally _everything_ you could for me. You made me eat. You offered to try to run home and get the milk. And even though watching me go slowly like that had to have been awful for you, you—you stayed with me the whole entire time, and...”

He trails off, but Dean knows precisely what he isn’t saying: _You held me in your arms as I suffocated._ He clears his throat a little gruffly, rubbing his jaw with his hand, before continuing.

“...Wh—what I’m trying to say is, because of you, I didn’t die alone. You had my back, one hundred percent. And you always have. I mean, look at everything you’ve done for me now: the potion, my shoulder, all that. You’re smart, Dean.” And here, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Now, as for whether you always _act_ like it, that’s another story. But there’s no doubt in my mind that, deep down, you’re very smart and very, _very_ capable. So, thank you. For everything.”

Dean’s not sure how, exactly, he thought this conversation was going to go when it inevitably happened. But it sure as hell wasn’t like this. In no universe did he ever expect _McJones_ to apologize to _him_ , to even fucking _thank_ him for what he’s done. He’s blown away, is what he is. Downright thunderstruck.

And what’s more, all this means that McJones must’ve been telling the truth before, when he swore he only started avoiding Dean _after_ Dean went off that first time. Which, in turn, means that this whole fight between them? It never actually existed. Not for a second. McJones wasn’t avoiding Dean because he was mad, he was avoiding Dean because he thought _Dean_ was mad at _him_.

Dean was completely convinced that McJones despised him. That McJones bore a grudge against him so bitter and deep-seated that he could barely look him in the eye. That their entire friendship had been dashed to bits on the rocks in the span of one, fateful moment. But really, Dean had just made the entire thing up in his head, pieced together from a bunch of misinterpreted moments. _Why_ the hell he would do that to himself, he doesn’t know. Probably to give himself an external outlet for his guilt or some crap. Maybe he’ll ask Lucah when he sees her next. But whatever the reason, holy fucking shit, he’s a moron. Shame rises fast in him like a tidal wave.

“Oh, goddamn it,” he groans, burying both of his hands in his hair. “I’m sorry. I just—I dunno. I’m a mess. Sorry for, like, putting my shit on you like this. My bad.”

Good fucking god, he is a _grown-ass man._ He should be better at dealing with his problems than this. Christ on a cracker.

But McJones brushes him off with a slight dip of his head. “No, it’s fine. I completely understand why you were pissed. _I’d_ be pissed, frankly, if I was in your position. Seriously, this is on me.” He stretches his legs out, resting back against the wall behind him. “But I really wish you would’ve said something before now. We could’ve avoided _weeks_ of this crap. Good lord.” He looks at Dean out of the bottoms of his glasses. “Communication is key here. Like I said, we’re part of a team, and we have to be able to talk honestly with each other.”

As soon as he says the words, Dean bristles. “Okay, _no_ , dude, as if you’re any better than me,” he snaps. “You literally avoided me for the past month because you didn’t wanna—I guess— _confront_ the situation or whatever. How’s that for communication?”

He _still_ can’t hold his tongue despite everything that’s happened, even though he knows he really ought to. He expects McJones to get defensive, but to his surprise, all McJones does is press his fingers into his temple and sigh heavily.

“Touché,” he mumbles, not quite meeting Dean’s half-glare. “My— _Austin’s_ the one who always gets into that sort of thing. He’s always ready to debate feelings, no matter the situation. But I just don’t do that; I’m not a bleeding heart like he is. I try to stay away from arguing over emotional crap and opinions and stuff like that, because what’s the point? Somebody’s always going to get mad no matter what you say, so why even bother escalating the situation? You have your feelings, and I have mine, and if you wanna get mad about that, be my guest. But I’m not going to get into a pointless pissing contest with you, _especially_ if it’s in front of other people. It’s usually better to just keep your mouth shut in those cases. That’s how I see it, mostly.

“Which is why I stayed away from you when you started getting testy with me. I had no idea what I’d done to tick you off, but I figured whatever it was, we’d never agree on it, and so bringing it up would just be a waste of both of our time.” He rubs his eyes with a fist, looking wry. “I genuinely did think I was helping by giving you space to let it blow over. But clearly, all I did was fuel the fire. Ugh.”

Dean doesn’t really have anything to say to that, so he just lets it stand. After a moment, he realizes his legs are starting to cramp up. He’s been sitting on them this whole time, the hard brick floor cutting into his knees, and by now they’ve gotten all fuzzy from the lack of blood flow. So he sits back, kicking them out in front of him like McJones is doing. Across from him, McJones’s hands are lying loosely on his thighs, and his gaze has wandered off into the distance once more. But as still and calm as he seems, there’s this crease between his eyebrows that says his thoughts are running a million miles an hour.

“And—” he starts abruptly, voice cutting through the silence, and he jerks his head up at Dean with a sudden fierceness. “And for what it’s worth, you make me nervous sometimes.”

It’s kind of apropos of nothing. Puzzled, Dean turns it over in his mind a few times.

“You mean because I’m reckless, and I never listen to you?” he guesses.

“Well. You said it, not me. But I won’t deny that you’re a loose cannon sometimes. And I’d definitely appreciate it if you took my advice more often.” A tiny smirk flickers across McJones’s face, but it’s gone as soon as it appears. He sucks in a long breath, falling silent for another couple of seconds. “...But no,” he finishes eventually. “That’s not—I just meant—” He shakes his head. “It’s not that. You just—you make me nervous for a lot of different reasons. I...never mind. Forget it.”

Immediately, a searing kind of aggravation flares back up in Dean’s chest. What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean? McJones literally just gave a whole speech about proper communication, and now two seconds later he’s saying some cryptic bullshit? Not happening. No fucking chance.

Except. He glances up at McJones to tell him so, and the words turn to dust in his throat. Because all of sudden, McJones is looking kind of strange and red in the face.

At first, Dean thinks he might be imagining it; after all, everything has a red glaze in the Nether, a ruddy kind of glow from all the frothing lava and hazy firelight coming from every direction. But no, the longer he stares at McJones, the darker and splotchier McJones’s cheeks get until it’s completely undeniable. It’s the most bizarre thing he’s ever seen.

Slowly, unsurely, McJones opens his mouth. He makes this strangled noise down in the pit of his throat that might be the start of a sentence, but he never finishes it. Instead, he just shuts his jaw again, giving a little bit of an uncomfortable squirm and sucking in a gulp of air that hunches his shoulders. He’s very pointedly not looking at Dean.

And something clicks into place in Dean’s head.

Before he even has time to blink, an involuntary rush of images strikes him so hard he goes breathless. He sees them in his mind as they surge forth one after another, each tangled up with the next like some kind of patchwork quilt, streaking past so rapid-fire he barely has time to process them:

The bright, warm smile McJones gave Dean at the very beginning of this world.

McJones meeting Dean gaze across the table during the first night's dinner.

The gentleness in McJones’s face as he studied Dean after Dean had that horrible nightmare.

Those hands on Dean’s shoulders, dragging him from the crater of the creeper explosion.

That familiar voice crying for help, terror splitting through every word.

McJones shaking, fumbling, not angry but _nervous_ as he bandaged the wounds on Dean’s back.

That melting sort of way McJones looked at Dean when Dean touched the scars on his arm.

The tongue-tied, stumbling sound of McJones’s voice going, _You make me nervous sometimes_.

And now—and right now, right before Dean’s very eyes—the fucking scarlet flush that’s settling all over McJones’s face and neck.

There’s pure electricity under Dean’s skin. A frantic buzz growing from deep within his head. He’s gone senseless to everything surrounding him. The only things he’s aware of, receded back inside of himself, are his thoughts, weaving themselves together all on their own as he just watches, a bystander. And faintly, like a muffled, echoing sort of dream, he remembers his past conversation with PBG:

_I know my brother, and I promise you, he was seriously worried about you._

_...No, no, I don’t believe that. He couldn’t—I really don’t—there’s just no way_ he _saved my life out there._

_Yeah, well, Stewart’s always been a goddamn liar._

Oh, Dean thinks, and he loses feeling in his fingertips.

 _Oh_.

Maybe—maybe this whole thing between them wasn’t just about what happened in the mineshaft. Maybe there was something else there too. Something completely different. Something deep and hidden and subconscious.

The strange, half-numb sensation spreads through Dean’s fingers. His eyes are stretched open dinner-plate wide.

And he knows he’s probably wrong about this. That he’s misinterpreting everything. That he’s just seeing what he wants to see. He’s done it before, after all. But he also knows that he’s probably never going to get a chance like this ever again. And he’s just—he’s tired. Tired of all this bullshit. Tired of running for his life. Tired of expecting death to be waiting for him around every corner. Tired of almost losing McJones. And—

 _Fuck it_.

It’s such a dangerous thought to be in the mind of someone like Dean, and he knows it, but he’s so far beyond giving a shit at this point.

Fuck it. Fuck being careful. Fuck worrying about screwing this up.

Fuck everything.

He leans forward and kisses McJones.

Sparks. A thousand different sensations in a single instant. McJones’s mouth is soft and warm and open the slightest bit, and his mustache is scratchy against Dean’s upper lip in the best way, and holy mother of god, Dean’s heart is going to explode right out of his chest.

This. This, this kiss right here, is what he’s been aching for. And it feels so much better than he ever dared to imagine.

He’s suspended in an ocean of heat. A hot shiver rolls through him as he presses in even closer to McJones. His stomach is in free-fall in his throat, surrounded by an endless swarm of butterflies. And like a shot, pure _want_ rushes up inside of him, bursting as hard and bright as a firework. He’s already drunk off of the feel of McJones’s lips, but sweet fucking Jesus, he wants more. So much more that it actually hurts. His hand is on McJones’s arm, and his nose is pressed into McJones’s cheek, and McJones—

—Is stiff.

He’s completely stiff. His mouth is like a stone under Dean’s.

In a flash, it’s like the bubble’s been popped. Dean’s bliss evaporates into nothing, leaving only cold shame like a hole in his chest.

Oh _Christ_ , what has he done?

If he lets this go on any longer, he’ll be a certifiable creep. The kind of horrible person who forces things on people who don’t want them. So, finally, carefully, reluctantly, he pulls away, feeling the dry Nether air sweep in and steal that exhilarating, fluttery feeling from his lips. And he very, very much tries to ignore the ball of lead forming in his gut.

Look. He expected this. He knew this might happen going in. He made a guess, and he guessed wrong. He’s had his fun. Whatever fury or disgust or anything that’s coming to him, he deserves it. At least he got to pretend, just for a little while, that—

McJones catches the back of his head, stopping him.

It happens so fast that Dean doesn’t even register it until McJones’s hand is tangled in his hair, pinkie brushing the nape of his neck. Dean’s breath halts somewhere in the middle of his throat. His senses jolt to full alertness, and suddenly he’s aware. So acutely aware **.** His eyes are still closed, but he can _feel_ McJones’s presence with every single, solitary nerve in his body.

His mind blanks. He’s afraid to move. He’s afraid to even breathe, for fear that he scares this—this thing that’s happening here—away. So he just sits there, frozen, zeroed in on the touch of McJones’s hand on his scalp. The silence is so pure he can almost taste it. His blood rushes in his ears. His thoughts are stamped over with one, big question mark.

After a long, long moment that feels like an eternity, he hears McJones inhale, and there’s this fucking _raggedness_ to it that makes him burn all over. At the same time, McJones’s fingers tighten, and he starts to draw Dean’s head down with the one hand. Instinctively, Dean’s own hands snake out and find his waist. As soon as Dean makes contact, McJones sucks in another, sharper, breath that rolls tantalizingly under Dean’s palms, and he arches forcefully into the embrace. For the span of a heartbeat, they hang there, right on the edge. And then, all at once, their faces come sloppily crashing together, and they’re kissing again.

Except it’s a thousand percent better this time.

It’s like something between them has snapped, like a cut wire. They’re grabbing at each other _hard_. Roughly. Greedily. Impatiently. Like the world’s going to end if they don’t have each other _right now_. Dean grips McJones’s middle and pulls him closer until their chests are nearly flush. McJones’s mouth is all over his, kissing him so insistently that Dean feels winded. And underscoring that is this raw _need_ in the way McJones’s fingers twist in his hair, this familiar sense of desperation. Like maybe, just maybe, McJones has been wanting this just as much and for just as long as Dean has.

Which is such an absurd thought. The idea that _McJones_ —big, strong, wise McJones, who plays his cards close to his chest, who doesn’t need anyone else, who’s far too good for trivial things like lust or romance—has gotten all flustered and tangled and rubbed raw over the thought of _Dean_ makes Dean’s head spin with disbelief. 

And yet, here they are. Here McJones is, in his arms. And here he is, holding McJones and kissing him and _being_ kissed in just the way he’s always yearned for. He doesn’t understand it. But he doesn’t care that he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t care at all.

He slips his arms all the way around McJones’s back, and McJones nestles eagerly into him in answer. Their breaths are coming in uneven tandem. One of Dean’s hands automatically slides up to cup McJones’s jaw, thumb pressing into his cheekbone. And McJones just makes this fucking growly _noise_ deep in his throat, this noise that makes Dean go dizzy like an overloaded circuit, his lips parting hungrily against McJones’s.

And then, he doesn’t think very much at all. He just lets his mind go and loses himself in it. Loses himself in the flow, in the give and take, the push and pull, the blend and the swirl and the thrill.

In the everything.

Finally, finally, after forever and a day, they unbraid themselves from each other. Slowly opening his eyes, Dean feels utterly wrecked, as if he’s been unraveled like string from the inside out. He has no clue how long it’s actually been. Time itself might as well have stopped dead just for them, only winding back up again to keep ticking along now that they’ve decided to allow it.

He still hasn’t come all the way down from the high. He’s lighter than air, filled with this soft glow that spreads from the top of his head all the way down to his toes. He runs his tongue across his lower lip, testing, and his heart tumbles over in a lopsided cartwheel that gives him the most heavenly feeling in the pit of his stomach. He exhales, and—

“What the fuck?” Dean says dreamily.

In front of him, McJones recoils sharply, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean _what the_ _eff?_ ” he snaps, although his voice is high and strangled. “I—you— _you_ started this!”

“I know, I just—” Dean gives a bewildered half-shrug, “—I didn’t expect you to, I dunno...reciprocate? I thought I was gonna get, like, punched in the dick.”

“I wouldn’t do that!”

“Well, obviously not.”

McJones’s teeth clack together, biting back whatever reply he was formulating, and he squirms. He’s been very wriggly this whole time. Dean’s never seen him quite so out of his element. It’s honestly incredible. He looks as sweaty as Dean feels, and he’s flushed and breathing hard. His hair is disheveled, and his pupils are wide and dark, and his mouth has this raw, wet, thoroughly-kissed look that has Dean dying a little bit over it.

He’s just beautiful, basically. He’s always been Dean’s beautiful boy.

He’s not really sitting in Dean’s lap, exactly, but his calves are thrown over Dean’s thighs, their legs forming interlocking V’s. Dean’s arms are wrapped looser around McJones now in a sort of, kind of hug. McJones has this weird, tense look on his face, but he’s not making any move to push Dean away. It seems less like he’s having second thoughts about what just happened and more that he’s plain fucking _embarrassed_. Which is…well, honestly, it’s cute as hell, but also Dean feels like maybe he should say something. As always, though, he’s completely at a loss for words, and the silence stretches on longer and longer and longer until _both_ of them are thoroughly uncomfortable.

Oh god. This isn’t at all like what happened with Ray. He and Ray got all the talking done first and _then_ moved on to the smooching. But what the fuck is Dean supposed to say now? _I like your face, and I like kissing your face, and I’m hoping we can do that some more. Y’down?_ And then he can ask McJones to homecoming while he’s at it, because apparently they’ve gone back to freshman year of high school. Jesus H.

Dean groans inwardly and itches his cheek on his shoulder. Things are coming back to him now—little bits and pieces of reality. Reminders of what they were doing before they got so sidetracked. He absently looks around the hallway the two of them are in, eyeing the door set in the cobblestone wall, the crafting table beside them from when Jeff made that bucket, the darkened patch on the ground where the lava flow was before they got rid of it, and finally, the windows cut into the nether brick. Through the tall yet narrow holes, he sees the netherrack cliffs and, higher above, the stalactites of glowstone hanging from the ceiling. Glowstone they still have to make their way up to get, even after everything they’ve been through. The mere thought makes Dean’s arms start to hurt all over again. For fuck’s sake.

“Dude,” he says finally, breaking the quiet. “The Nether sucks balls.”

It’s not the poetic speech he was hoping for. But somehow it works, because McJones sputters, and all of a sudden he’s laughing so hard he can’t get a single word out. And only a brief moment of surprise passes before Dean cracks up too, high and loud and fizzy like soda.

Their laughter blends together in the otherwise-empty hallway, and with a pang, it reminds Dean of the mineshaft. Not the bad part, the part with the spiders and the blood and McJones wasting away in his arms, but the parts before that. The good parts, when they were ambling side by side through the dilapidated tunnels, their eyes peeled for treasure chests and veins of emerald. When, in their shared delirium, they were absolutely losing their shit over the mere thought of a diamond shovel. And most of all, when Dean was just as head-over-heels for McJones’s smile as he is now.

McJones is still wheezing even as Dean’s giggling fades out, and all of a sudden, he just tips his head forward onto Dean’s shoulder. And Dean’s skin, his body, his everything— _sings_. He is _alive_ , living, burning. He can feel McJones’s breath on his neck, and his fingers involuntarily press a little harder into McJones’s lower back. He wants to kiss him again, badly. So badly. He’s already gotten exactly what he wished for, but even that’s not enough for him. It’s the kind of impatient gluttony he just wants to lose himself in. So he starts to reach for McJones’s hand, and that’s when it happens.

“ _Dean? Stewart?_ ”

The others.

Dean jerks up, his heart stuttering. He locks eyes with McJones for a split second, and then he’s stumbling to his feet. “ _Hey!_ We’re here!” he yells back hoarsely, cupping his hands around his mouth.

 _The others_.

They’ve found each other, just like Jeff promised they would. Just like Dean doubted they ever would. The beginnings of slack relief start to bloom in his chest, but only a split second later, something hits him that sends him choking on a wave of horror. Because—they’ve been so overwhelmed with their own shit that they haven’t been paying attention to whether or not they’ve felt anything. 

Someone could be dead. Oh god, someone could be dead.

He stands there in the middle of the corridor, anxiety yanking his stomach into a knot. He’s fixed on the intersection at the other end. Indistinctly, he hears sprinting footsteps, clanking metal, urgent voices. The sounds grow louder and louder, and a moment later, the others blow around the corner. But the very instant they see Dean, they freeze right where they are, stunned statues in a tight cluster. And, in a panic so violent it makes him want to throw up, Dean takes them in.

One.

Two.

Three.

And four.

Four. They didn’t lose anyone.

Dean goes limp with joy, his legs threatening to give out beneath him. His vision blurs with a flood of tears. His friends, his friends. They did it. They made it out of this nightmare alive. It’s _over_.

They’re all still quiet, just staring at each other from opposite ends of the hallway in shared sense of disbelief and hope: PBG, pale and open-mouthed, his green eyes as round as saucers. Barry, shield in one hand and sword in the other, both stained over with blood. Jeff, gripping his elbows and shuddering ever so slightly. And Dodger, her hair drooping and her hands clasped over her mouth. Her gaze connects with Dean’s, and then suddenly her hands snap down and she shouts, “ _I thought we’d never fucking see you guys again!_ ”

That’s all it takes. In a flash, they’re sprinting down the hall and almost tackling Dean as they swarm around him, all crying over one another. To the side, McJones is struggling to his feet, and oh god, Dean really should’ve helped him up, but it doesn’t matter because then they’re pulling him into the huddle too, and he’s standing burrowed between PBG and Dean with his bad arm drawn carefully into his chest, a slow, wobbling smile ticking at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, _thank god_ ,” Jeff sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Thank god.”

“The dream team, back together at last,” Dean says, and he gets a little bit choked up.

After a moment, McJones leans back to squint at the door in the wall. “…Okay, hold on,” he starts warily. “I don’t mean to ruin the mood, but me and Dean had quite a few guys on us, and I’m pretty sure they’re still around here somewhere. I’d hate for us to be celebrating prematurely and then just get _destroyed_ in one fell swoop because we let our guard down.”

But Jeff shakes his head. “No, the pigmen de-aggroed, I think. I mean, we walked by a few, and they didn’t try to attack us or anything. So we’re probably fine now.”

“Oh, good, then. _Good_. Took them long enough.” McJones lets out a puff of air. “That _seriously_ sucked. Man, they’re nasty.”

“Yeah, tell us about it. We got cornered at a dead-end not too far from the bridge, and I thought for sure we were goners,” Barry mutters, and he wipes his forehead. Dean looks at the blood covering him, at the deep wound on Dodger’s leg, at the rips in Jeff’s clothes. At the weary, still-rattled shadow in all of their gazes. So they didn’t have an easy time of it either, even on the other, “safer” side of the bridge. They’ve had to fight for their lives just the same as he and McJones did. There’s a sort of solidarity in that that makes something inside of him tug free.

“Holy _crap_ ,” PBG murmurs, then. Dean looks to see him covering his face, his fingertips pressed into the corners of his eyes. “Oh my god. We were really starting to get worried back there. We were just wandering around the fortress for _so_ long, but we c—couldn’t find you guys anywhere, so we—we thought—” his voice starts to waver, “—and I had no idea if you were even a— _alive_ or not, ‘cause sometimes you don’t even feel _anything_ , y’know, in those other worlds, if you’re too far away, and I just—just kept thinking, what if we were too late, and what if you were both dead somewhere in here, and we were just going to find your dead bodies somewhere and—”

McJones puts a hand on his arm to stop him. “ _Breathe_ , Austin.”

Obediently, PBG presses his lips together and takes in a long breath through his nose. “Yeah,” he whispers after a moment, working his fingers into his palms. “Yeah, okay. Sorry. I’m okay. I just...” He inhales again, slower. “I just need a minute. I’m sweating. That was so scary. To see you guys trapped on the other side of the bridge like that. I’m really glad you’re alright.”

Their little circle of reunion fragments after another couple of seconds. Dean leans back against the wall, his wandering fingers finding a little notch in the brick to ground himself, while McJones perches on the edge of the crafting table with legs crossed at the ankles—although he tosses a watchful glance at PBG. Dodger’s the only one who stays rooted in place, looking down at the floor with narrowed eyes.

“Hey. Guys.”

She speaks suddenly, and her voice is thin.

“I’m—” With a swallow, she finally looks up. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. You guys told me _specifically_ not to hurt the pigmen, and then I panicked and fucked everything up. I don’t even have the words to tell you how—” She takes in a trembling breath, her face crumpling. “This is all because of me. I—I’m so, so sorry.”

The guilt and sorrow radiating out from her are palpable. And there’s such a cold, striking familiarity to it that Dean’s heart splits in half. He knows exactly what she’s feeling, right down to the deepest parts of himself. He knows exactly how horrible it is to think that someone got hurt—got _killed_ —all because of you; his own regret has only just barely started to fade away, even. And he can already tell that it’s going to take a nice long while for something that deep-seated to vanish completely.

But if it wasn’t his fault for not bringing the milk, then there’s no fucking way he’s letting Dodger go on believing it’s her fault for hitting a pigmen.

“No, it’s not ‘cause of you,” he says, and his voice is so sure that he surprises himself. But he keeps going, even as all the others turn to look at him. “There was _no_ fucking way something wasn’t gonna happen with that many pigmen swarming around where we were fighting. _Someone_ was gonna end up nailing one sooner or later. If anything, it’s everyone’s fault for not putting up a wall or whatever to get the pigmen out of our way. Or—fuckin’—the _ghasts_ ’ fault for blowing up the bridge. But not yours.”

He stares right into Dodger’s eyes, willing her to understand. Slowly, she opens her mouth to reply, but McJones cuts in before she can:

“Dodger, I’d say with confidence that every single one of us here has attacked a pigmen at some point. If a guy with a sword is coming at you, you’re gonna take a swing at him, right?” He raises his eyebrows, actually waiting for her response. She hesitates before giving an unsure nod. “Right. It’s only natural. Nobody can help their instincts. And if _we_ make mistakes like that all the time, even after doing this forever, how could we lambast _you_ for slipping up when you don’t even have our experience?”

“Yeah, why do you think Stewart was yelling at me last night? I’m always hitting the pigmen on accident. And I’m not even a newbie, so what’s my excuse?” PBG pipes up.

“Plus, nobody even died,” Dean adds. “So there’s really nothing to be sorry for.”

“Well, yeah, but…”

Dodger doesn’t finish her sentence. She just trails off, lacing her fingers together behind her back and tapping the toe of her boot against the ground. But when Jeff takes a step forward, she falls still, glancing up at him.

“Dodge, I think I speak for everyone when I say it’s an honor to have you beside us,” he tells her, and the rest of them murmur in agreement. He smiles at her, soft. “You’ve helped us way, _way_ more than you’ve caused any problems. We’ve all got each other’s backs here, no matter what. It happened, and it sucked, but it was a total accident. None of us are gonna hold it against you for a second. And now it’s over, and we’ve got other things to deal with. You just gotta move forward and not dwell on it. Okay?”

Dodger nods again, but this one is sharper, more confident. “Okay.”

“You good?”

“I’m good.” Her chest lifts with a breath. Her arms fall, slow, to her sides. “Thanks. Thank you guys. I really just—I love you all.”

And Dean can see it in her eyes that her heart is a little bit tougher now. A little bit scarred from what she’s been through. A little bit changed from what it was when she first woke up all those weeks ago. A little bit closer to the others’ hearts, which bear the scars of a thousand wounds before this, and now have come to bear a thousand plus one.

But though they’ve been through hell, they’ve always come out the other side stronger for it. Just as life goes on, so too do they. And so too will Dodger.

Then, they’re just quiet. But it’s a comforting, calming, soothing sort of quiet, more so than anything Dean’s experienced in a long time. There’s no need to speak, because their presences do all the talking for them. And slowly, as they stand amongst each other, this unifying sense of peace comes washing over all of them at once. It fills the room, fills the spaces between their bodies, fills each of their souls to the brim. For the first time in a while, it feels like everything’s going to be okay.

At long last, Jeff thumbs a strand of hair out of his eyes and looks around. “…Wow,” he says with an incredulous chuckle. “I just—I can’t believe nobody died. After all that.” He angles his chin at Dean and McJones. “Seriously, you guys sure you’re good?”

“Yeah, we’re fine,” McJones replies, crossing his one leg over the opposite knee.

“McJones got withered and fell down the stairs and dislocated his shoulder,” Dean clarifies without missing a beat, which earns him disturbed looks from everyone else.

“ _What?”_ PBG chokes. “You call that _fine?_ That should’ve been the first thing you told us!” He turns to glare at McJones. “Stewart!”

McJones makes a noise, hunching a little. “Well, I’m not actively dying anymore, so...y’know.”

“Yeah, but _sheesh!_ What the heck happened to you guys?”

“We had the misfortune of running into a wither skeleton while trying to get away from the pigmen. I couldn’t fight him off quick enough, and he both withered me _and_ knocked me down the stairs. And I kinda landed on my arm sideways like this—” he demonstrates, “—which pushed my shoulder right out of the socket. I didn’t realize it at the time, not consciously; I was too busy worrying about being withered and all that. But later, I tried to lean on it, and _hoo boy_ , did I realize then.”

“Oh, shit, yeah, a fall like that’ll definitely do it.” Jeff’s eyes flick worriedly to McJones’s shoulder. “Er, so, do you need—”

“No, like I said, I’m alright now.”

“And it’s all thanks to me!” Dean butts in, leaning closer to McJones. “I gave ‘im my regen potion, _and_ I put his shoulder back where it’s supposed to be!”

Jeff’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, wait, _you_ reduced his shoulder, Dean? When’d you learn how to do that?”

“I talked him through it. He just had to follow my directions,” McJones interjects flatly.

“Goddamn it, McJones!” Dean cries, aiming a hard look of outrage at him. “This is _the_ coolest thing I’ve _ever_ done, and you’re ruining it!”

A smirk cracks McJones’s face, and he waves a hand. “Oh, sorry, my bad.” To the others, he adds in an exaggerated voice, “No, actually, you guys, Dean was _soooo_ cool and brave. It was like he turned into a whole ‘nother person.”

“I was basically a knight in shining armor, and Stewart was my beautiful and helpless prince.”

“Yup, that’s _exactly_ how it went.”

“Shit, maybe I shoulda gone to med school instead of law school.” Dean thumps his hand against his chest. “I’m basically a natural.”

“Well,” says McJones, lip curling, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

And then he bursts out laughing, high and loud and beautiful. The others all laugh right along with him, but the thing is, they just don’t get it. The whole hidden meaning here is lost on them. They completely miss how McJones’s eyes cut over to Dean after a moment, all crinkled up and gleaming and doing that melty thing again. And they definitely don’t notice the look residing there in his gaze as plain as day. The look that says, _Yes, we’re alright_.

It’s the very olive branch Dean’s been dreaming of for so long, and it blows a rush of something through his heart. His laughter dies down, and he inches even closer to McJones until their arms are almost brushing. And in a low voice, so low that maybe only McJones can hear, he throws back, “Hey, don’t crush my dreams, you asshole.”

And the special smile that McJones gives him just about knocks him dead.

“So, what’s the plan now?” Barry asks once they’ve all finally settled back down. “Since the pigmen aren’t after us anymore, should we just...head back to the blaze spawner?”

“I mean, but Stewart’s shoulder got messed up, though. Is he gonna be okay if we keep going?” PBG points out. He’s scooted himself a little closer to McJones in concern, and he’s holding McJones’s sword and shield for him to let him rest his arms.

At that, Barry nods, frowning slightly. Jeff sighs out a long stream of air. “God, I really don’t know,” he says. “McJones, you said you were able to walk Dean through reduction pretty easily?”

“Yeah. It was like—as soon as he popped it back in, it was just _instantaneous_ relief. A solid nine to a two, just like that.” McJones gingerly rubs his shoulder. “It’s starting to hurt more again, but it’s still way better than it was. I think I’ll be able to use my sword alright, so I doubt there’s—”

Jeff startles, shaking his head quickly. “Oh, dude, no, no, no. Even though your shoulder’s back in place, now that you’ve dislocated it once, you’re at, like, a _way_ greater risk of repeat injury, especially in the first few days. We have to get your shoulder stabilized asap. You can’t use it, like, at all. For anything.”

“Oh. I’ll be out of commission for a while, then, huh? Shoot.”

“Yep, unfortunately. But it’s the safest thing to do.” Jeff pauses for a moment, settling his finger on his cheek as he thinks. “...Look, let’s just get out of here and regroup. We can build, like, a shelter or something on the mainland. Set up some crafting tables. Take stock of the situation. Get ourselves back together and decide where to go from here. McJones, I’ll try to make you a sling or something. And I wanna take a look at your shoulder too, just to make sure you’re actually all good.”

“What, Jeff, you don’t think I did it right? I’m insulted!” Dean interjects.

“ _Noooo_ ,” says Jeff unconvincingly, and McJones snorts. “No, but really. Dislocations get worse the longer they’re left untreated. You gotta take that stuff seriously.”

“Yeah, you’ve got a point,” McJones agrees with a twist of his mouth. “I hoped I’d be okay to keep going, but—” he lifts his arm a little, wincing, “— _ow_. Wishful thinking on my part, I suppose.”

Dodger raises her hand. “I’m on Team _Take a Break_ too. I gotta get out of these damn shoes for a bit. My feet hurt.”

“So’s everyone good with that plan, then? We head back to the mainland and try to get organized?” Jeff looks to the other three.

“Fine by me,” Barry remarks. PBG and Dean both nod their assent as well, PBG muttering something about still feeling jittery and needing some fresh air. It’s not like the air beyond the fortress walls is going to be any different, but Dean totally gets what he means. He feels pent-up. Stir-crazy. How long have they been here again? It feels like it’s been a lifetime since he’s seen anything other than brick and netherrack. And what with McJones’s shoulder and the whole pigman situation and everything else—they just really need some space to cool down.

So after making sure they’re good on food, they draw their swords once more—all of them except for McJones, who just takes his shield back from PBG—and start off through the corridor. Jeff leads, much to Dean’s immense relief; he’s never been so glad to have someone who actually knows where to go taking charge. If he never has to blindly wander his way through another four-way crossing again in his life, it’ll be too soon. It’s a goddamn miracle he and McJones didn’t run themselves in circles that whole time.

They follow Jeff, who in turn follows their trail of torches. As they walk, they begin to unconsciously fall into a sort-of protective circle around McJones. Dean notices and mutters, “God, we gotta, like, fuckin’ _convoy_ McJones here. He’s defenseless.”

“Hey, don’t treat me like an invalid,” McJones says with a sideways glance that pulls a snicker from Dean. But even still, he doesn’t make any attempt to extricate himself from the circle; all he does is adjust his shield on his good arm and suck in his cheeks with a vague, reluctant apprehension.

Then, Dean feels a prickle, and he glances up to find Barry looking back at him and McJones with this bizarre expression of vague amusement. And oh god, _Barry_. Dean complete forgot about him and all of his bullshit—his stupid _you’ve got a thing for McJones_ accusation all those weeks ago that turned out to be completely accurate. _Fuck_. Dean’s gonna have to tell McJones about that whole situation probably sooner rather than later. Which is not a conversation he’s looking forward to having. At all.

But whatever. What the fuck ever. He’s not thinking about that right now. That’s Future Dean’s problem.

They’ve reached the part of the fortress that Dean actually remembers, which is good, because it means they’re close to freedom. It’s been kind of an uneventful trek, all things considered. Dean’s a little surprised to realize that they haven’t seen even a single monster this whole time. It seems impossible that they’d just get to waltz right on outta here after the gauntlet they’ve been through.

And it is. Almost as soon as Dean starts to get excited, they turn down another hallway to find a cluster of pigmen right in their way. Their hearts give a startled lurch as one, and a flurry of urgent whispers and curses breaks out amongst them. Jeff’s the only one who doesn’t draw back in fear; twisting halfway around, he tells them in a soft voice to stay calm and keep moving, reminding them that the pigmen have deaggroed by now.

 _Deaggroed_. Right. Dean tries to convince himself of that as they cautiously approach the group of pigmen. Fear skitters up his bones, instinct pushing to take over, and it takes more effort than he expects to hold it at bay. But still, he’s ready if they have to run. He’s ready to take off like a fucking _shot_ the instant things go bad. He doesn’t trust these bastards for a second.

Their convoy breaks up into a compact, single-file line. When they get within a few feet, Dean sees Dodger actually sheath her sword, which is a bold yet honorable-as-hell move. Putting her own safety and comfort aside just so she can be sure she won’t hurt the pigmen again. She’s got real guts, their Dodger. She’s gonna make it all the way—Dean can just feel it.

Then, one by one, they slip past the pigmen. Dean squints at them suspiciously as he sneaks by, pressing close to the wall to put as much space between himself and them as possible. Their dull eyes slide over him, and they give a few, curious snuffles that make his pulse trip all over again. But they remain sluggish, placid. There’s not a flicker of motion to attack, not even a hint of ferocity in their faces.

And that’s all that happens. In just a few seconds, they’re safely past the pigmen, like there’s nothing to it. Dean sighs heavily, feeling the tension seep from his shoulders. As unsettled as he is, that was almost… _anticlimactic_ , in a way. As if that group of pigmen was supposed to be some kind of final challenge, except it turned out lame. But that’s just how it goes sometimes. The journey is more than the endgame. There’s not always this last, great obstacle to overcome that settles out into a neat happily-ever-after tied up with a bow. Things are what they are, and they just have to take everything as it comes in an endless, rolling wave of ups and downs.

They keep going. For a few more minutes, Jeff guides them down a few more corridors and across a few more intersections. And then, finally, finally, at long fucking last, they take another corner and find themselves back in that lava well room. Right before them is the bridge. The single bridge, stretching all the way back to the mainland. The exit. And the sensation that comes over them when they see it—

It’s true hope. 

“Oh— _we made it!_ ” PBG screams, putting words to their joy, and he’s answered with a swell of loud cheers. They made it. Against all odds, here they are. Take that, Nether. Take that, pigmen. Fuck you. Dean throws his middle fingers into the air, and he might even shout it out loud too. But he really and truly means it: _Fuck you_.

“I swear to god, if there’re any ghasts out there, I’m gonna lose my damn mind,” Barry mumbles, dragging his forearm across his face.

“Well—” Dodger gasps out a laugh, “—let’s get the fuck out of here before they show up! Jesus Christ.”

On that note, the six of them take off towards the doorway to the bridge. But then, out of the corner of his eye, Dean catches sight of McJones, having fallen a few paces behind the rest of them. And something about that makes him slow as well. Before he can second-guess himself, he leans over and grabs at McJones’s hand, fingers brushing over the back of his wrist.

“Hey. McJones.”

McJones starts at the touch, but only briefly. He stutter-steps to a halt, standing right on the threshold where the room becomes the bridge, and slowly turns to look up at Dean, his eyebrows raised just the tiniest bit. “Yeah?” he says.

Dean opens his mouth. And shuts it again, like a goldfish _glub-glub-glubbing_ away. The weight of everything that’s happened between the two of them tugs like a string, tying them together by their deepest parts. Dean gets warm in the face. McJones appears to be having similar thoughts.

After a beat, Dean rakes his dark hair back from his eyes and presses his lips together. “So what’s gonna happen now?” he asks.

“Well, what Jeff said: We’re going to regroup.”

“No, I mean, like.” Dean gestures abstractly, frenetically, tossing his hands around like maybe he can just pluck the proper words right out of the air. “With, ah, me and you. Us.”

Good fucking god, he feels like such a scrub. What a horribly awkward turn of phrase. They’re getting dangerously close to edgy fourteen-year-old territory again. And judging by the uncomfortable expression that flits across McJones’s face, he agrees wholeheartedly with that sentiment.

“Dean, we need to get back,” he mumbles, and he’s probably right; the others are halfway down the bridge by now. He turns away, but Dean reaches for him jerkily.

“No, I—I gotta know, dude. When are you gonna propose to me?” he blurts.

McJones stops.

“P...propose?”

“Well, yeah.” Dean angles a look at him. Truthfully, this isn’t what he planned to say, but he’s perfectly fine to roll with it. “It’s just the gentlemanly thing to do, you know. You’re not planning to court me without intention, are you?”

“I—”

McJones looks so alarmed that Dean has to dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from busting out laughing.

“And then after you propose,” he goes on, gaining steam, “we’ll elope in the moonlight and run off together and have three adorable kids and be disgustingly in love for the rest of our lives. Am I right?”

He clasps his hands together overdramatically. McJones stares at him.

“...Alright, look.”

He sucks in a long, long breath, and Dean prepares himself for some classic McJones snark. But to his amazement, McJones points a finger at him and continues, “ _First_ of all, definitely no eloping; I won’t settle for anything less than a proper church wedding. Second of all, we’re only having two kids, ‘cause three is just way too many.”

“Hmm. I guess I can—”

“And third of all, I want to be the wife, so _you_ have to propose to _me_.”

McJones’s mouth twitches. God, Dean fucking loves it when he plays along like this.

“ _Well_.” Dean pretends to think about it, but he can’t contain the goofy smile stretching across his face. “You drive a hard bargain, McJones. But I’ll take it.” He leans closer to McJones, his grin turning sultry. “As long as I get to make sweet, passionate love to my beautiful bride on our honeymoon.”

McJones gives a breathy chuckle. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Nah, I’ll be pushing something else some _where_ else, if you know what I mean.” Dean winks, and McJones bristles sharply, going a startled shade of red.

“ _Dean_ ,” he snaps. “ _Stop_.”

He glowers up at Dean, but Dean just laughs. Oh, McJones. His McJones. His adventure boy. He’s missed him so, so much.

“Hey!”

A loud voice reaches them, and they both look over to see PBG standing on the mainland, waving his arms back and forth. Behind him, the others have already started building a little shelter, the cobblestone frame of it rising up from the rocky wasteland.

“We lost you guys again!” PBG yells, rocking forward on the balls of his feet. “Get the heck over here!”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll be right there!” McJones calls back. Then, he looks to Dean again. He’s still a little bit pink in the face, Dean notices with a fair amount of delight. “Shall we?” he offers. “Or is there anything else dumb you have to say?”

After a second, he cracks a teasing smile that makes him go all crinkle-eyed. And Dean could say a million and one different stupid things right now, just to stick it to him. But Dean settles for just leaning into him, pressing up against him for the briefest moment. And something inside him tingles when he feels McJones press back in answer.

“C’mon, McJones, let’s get you the fuck outta here,” he says, and McJones wheezes out a quiet laugh. Together, they start to jog down the bridge towards the mainland to join their friends.

And life, as always, goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading! All your support & comments along the way have meant more to me than I can say. 
> 
> That being said, though, this really has been a labor of love. I’ve been watching hardcore on & off again since Minecraft 4, but I only really started getting into it after Minecraft 6. Around then is when I realized there was a whole fandom & shipping & all that good stuff. As I explored the fan side of things, various fic ideas started coming to me & coalescing until they turned into one, huge idea that made me say _”Wow, I really wanna write that.”_ Thus, the adventure began in late February, 2018. 
> 
> ...And then McJones retired in the beginning of March. Great timing, dude. I floundered for a few days after he made the announcement on Reddit, thinking like _"Oh god, he’s a huge part of my fic. What do I do? Should I just cancel it?”_ But I ultimately decided to forge ahead anyway, retirement be damned. At the time, I foolishly thought I’d be able to finish the entire thing before Starbound premiered at the beginning of May.
> 
> As you can tell, I was sorely mistaken. 
> 
> This fic ended up taking on a life of its own, clocking in at over 100K words— _the_ longest thing I’ve ever written—as well as taking me a full year and a half to complete. But I have no regrets. I had so much fun writing this, and I can only hope you've gotten half as much enjoyment from reading it.
> 
> Now, I just wanna interrupt myself to share some facts about the part where McJones dislocates his shoulder, because I did so much googling to make sure everything was accurate. That was far and away the most researched part of this fic, and I'm actually a little proud of how much work I put into it:
> 
> So, basically, what happened is that McJones had an anterior (forward) dislocation, which is the most common type of dislocation, accounting for over 95% of cases. Dean reduced (the fancy medical word for relocates) it using what’s called Kocher’s method. [Here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jD0eAuctHoo) a helpful video demonstration if you’re interested in seeing what Kocher’s method looks like in practice. Nothing too too horrifying happens in that video. You can see the guy’s shoulder shift back into place under the skin, which is kind of gross and freaky, but I promise you, it’s not that bad. I’m extremely squeamish myself, and even I was able to watch that video for referential purposes.
> 
> Finally, before I finish off this author's note, I just want to make something clear: This will not be my only contribution to the hardcore fandom. I have a word document that is absolutely _packed_ with half-written snippets for a dozen other hardcore fics I'm hoping to write. A lot of them are rarepairs I really wanna explore (you will tear Jeff/McJones from my cold, dead hands), one’s a retelling of a part from MineZ 1, and there’s even some delicious one-sided angst in there. 
> 
> But also, I have a few ideas for more stuff set in the _And We All Return to the Earth_ -verse. Not sequel territory, but more like companion stories. There's several different concepts I've been kicking around, but my most favorite by a _mile_ is a fic where I'd tell parts of the story from McJones’s perspective instead. If that sounds interesting to you, let me know (although I have so many lines already written for the McJones-perspective story that I’m probably going to go ahead and write it no matter what).
> 
> And that's it! Once again, thank you all from the bottom of my heart. I sincerely hope you enjoyed _Return to the Earth_.
> 
> See you again soon!


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